


The Rebel League

by ionthesparrow



Series: Hockey at the End of the World [3]
Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: F/M, Los Angeles Kings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 55,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rome wasn't burned in a day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rebel League

**Author's Note:**

> I am utterly indebted to [empathapathique](%E2%80%9D) and [ kelfin](%E2%80%9D). Mostly for telling me, over and over again: _not good enough, not good enough, not good enough._
> 
>  
> 
> __
> 
> And to [pressdbtwnpages](%E2%80%9D), for stepping in at the end to help me cut the cord. 
> 
>  
> 
> WARNINGS: This story contains themes of PTSD and depression, graphic depictions of physical violence, and rape allegations. Death, destruction, and mayhem. Anyone with specific concerns is welcome to contact me at ionthesparrow12 at gmail.
> 
>  
> 
> Good lord, this one was a long time coming, eh? Hockey notes, additional thanks, etc at the end.

 

 

There’s nothing to look at – the windows in the van are blacked out. He could close his eyes and it wouldn’t make any difference; there’s nothing but the vague sense of motion, the hard bench underneath him, the way the hand that’s cuffed to the rail in front of him is slowly going numb. 

He thinks about Holmgren’s face, serious and composed, and his voice – doing his best version of _apologetic_. 

“I’m profoundly sorry,” he had said, and after that Jeff had to look away. But even then, he knew Holmgren’s eyes would have stayed locked on his face, that Holmgren’s features would have been carefully molded into an expression of solemn concern, pointedly ignoring the spill of lurid photos across the desk. “Profoundly sorry that it had to end like this.” 

And he was _good_ , because Jeff knew somewhere under that pinstripe exterior there was a man who played ten seasons of professional hockey. A man who set records in PIMs. _That_ man was doing a classic hockey fist pump at his plan coming together. 

None of it had shown on his face. 

“I think you know, Carter, in light of this, and with your _background_ – ” and he had managed, with his tone, to leave everything Jeff’s parents had done wrong at Jeff’s feet “ – that your career with the Orange is over.” Holmgren’s hands had sat flat, perfectly symmetrical on the edge of his desk. “But you could still help this team. You could still help your _friend_.” When Jeff had glanced up, Holmgren had the nerve to _smile._

Jeff had said, “What do you want me to do?” 

“Mike Richards’ career doesn’t have to be over. If what we’re actually looking at here is _coercion_ , _blackmail –_ ” One of his hands had twirled in the air, as if unspooling thread. 

Jeff had shifted his gaze from Holmgren’s hands back to the photos – a dozen intimate moments on display, looking strange and out of place, _wrong_ under the harsh lights in Holmgren’s office. He thought of Mike – the way he looked in the morning, just waking up. Just _hours_ ago _,_ or a year ago, or all the way back to that first year, when he had curled around Jeff against the cold, and when Jeff had been so totally and fiercely in love with him, without even knowing what that meant. 

“Yeah,” Jeff said to Holmgren. Nodded. “That’s what happened. I made him. I forced him.” 

From there it had been easy. Easy to let Holmgren guide him through writing out a statement. Easy to sign it. Easy to wait in the office, while Holmgren went out to summon the militiamen to arrest him. He had toyed with the playing card left lying on the desk – pen still in his hand. And there’s a chance, he had thought, that Mike might see this. But what was there to write? 

What are you supposed to tell someone when it’s the last thing you’ll get to say? 

 

 

 

 

And now – there’s no scenery, just the motion of the van to signal the miles they’re covering. Just Jeff and his two silent guards. There’s a pit in him that is borderless and black, gaping and raw. And it’s so deep that he knows that if he ever really looks in, he’s not ever going to find his way back. But there’s also – faint but undeniable – a feeling of _relief_. 

He’s been waiting, _worrying,_ that this would happen. Waiting for it since he was eight years old and the militia took his parents away. And now they’re finally, _finally_ back for him. It’s done _._

 

 

 

 

They hit the border crossing to get into the Black & Gold, and then they keep going. Long enough for his legs to cramp, for his arm to go numb. The van slows down, and they pass through one more border checkpoint. No one says anything to him, but given the timing, there’s really only two places they could be: the Silver & Blue, if they’ve been heading west, or the Navy, if they’ve been going south. It’s hard to focus long enough to think about where he’s going, so Jeff just closes his eyes and waits. 

When they finally stop and pull him out, it’s dark. After the sensory deprivation of the trip, everything feels sharper, heightened – the breeze on his skin, the orange glow of the fluorescent lights on the building behind him. Jeff was vaguely expecting to see prison gates or a factory similar to where his mother works, but it’s not militiamen that greet him. Instead, he emerges from the van to see a couple of guys in khakis and polos, older, and soft around the middle, with that player-gone-to-seed look that practically screams _hockey front office personnel._

Jeff’s PerT tags get read, and re-coded, and read again. They take his handcuffs off. 

His new custodian frowns over the card reader, looks him up and down and says, “You’re lucky you’re so good at hockey.” 

Hockey. Right.Why throw him away, when they could sell him? 

They leave him standing next to the van while they exchange signatures and paperwork. They’re in the loading dock area, behind a massive structure that looks like an arena. All ice centers look more or less the same from this vantage, but Jeff doesn’t recognize this one, and he’s pretty sure he’d recognize the Navy’s complex from any angle, given the number of times he’s played there. 

The Silver  & Blue, then. 

His breath catches. Because he was in the Orange _this morning_ ; he was with Mike _this morning_. And now he’s _hundreds_ of miles away. Abruptly, he’s right on the edge of panic, anxiety fizzing through his blood, breath coming faster. Judging by the way his new custodians have been looking at him, the Silver  & Blue knows _all about_ how he was arrested for corruption, for degenerate and immoral acts – but apparently the Orange failed to mention that he was a _flight risk_ , because they’ve left him standing here, _alone,_ their eyes glued to the papers in front of them. Jeff’s hands are trembling. 

He runs. 

__

 

 

 

 

He snaps his PerTs off – the tags lighting up red and angry the moment the clasp gives. He throws them to the ground and _runs_. 

It’s hopeless from the start. It’s dark; he’s in a city he doesn’t know. Every doorway is equipped with PerT trackers, every street has them built into the wide archways that span overhead. And even if he doesn’t have his tags on anymore, all they’d have to do is monitor every time a gate detects someone going through, uncorrelated with a tag signal. They can probably track his progress from the comfort of their office, from their _truck –_

__

He runs anyway. Runs even when he hears the squeal of tires behind him, the shout of a siren. He is too soaked in adrenaline to feel the blow, and he only sort of remembers falling. 

 

 

 

 

Jeff comes awake in small, stuttering steps. The first sensation is of nausea, and he manages, just barely, to roll onto his side before vomiting. His guts spasm, and he’s coughing, _choking_. He tries to push himself up, away, but his arms feel weak, incapable of supporting even his own weight. Instead he rolls onto his other side, curls his knees into his chest. There’s a throb building in his head, and wherever he is, the floor is cold against his bare skin. It’s a relief to press his forehead into it. He closes his eyes. Breathes. 

Wherever he is smells like vomit and piss. 

His next effort to push himself upright is more successful, but just the act of dragging himself a few feet across the floor leaves him exhausted. Dizzy and shaking. 

He lies there until the room stops spinning. It could be minutes. It could be _hours_. 

The generalized _ache_ in his body begins to resolve itself into specific hurts. The throb in his head. The burned, raw feeling in the back of his throat. His chest hurts. His wrist. 

He gets himself semi-upright, back to the wall. He’s lost his clothes somewhere along the way, and there’s a bandage on his right wrist and under it, a small incision, still the inflamed red of a recent cut. Jeff stares at it. It’s shiny, like surgical glue has been spread over it. And there’s just – his brain is drawing a complete blank, just giving out entirely when he tries to think of _what_ – 

There’s also a bandage on his chest, high on the left side. And that one’s easier to figure out, because when he peels the tape back, he reveals a tattoo of black lines. A barcode. Like the one they use to mark imports. Jeff tastes bile, and the fluttery sensation of panic in his chest returns. He tugs roughly at the chain around his neck, and sure enough, when he pulls his PerTs around from where they’ve slipped behind his neck, they have the black edging that denotes _import_. He shuts his eyes, but when he opens them, the black edging is still there. The tattoo is still there. 

At some point, a tray with food is slipped through a slot in the door. At some point after that, all the lights shut off. 

 

 

 

 

The lights have been back on for at least an hour when the door clicks open. Jeff presses back against the wall, cold cement rough against his bare skin. It’s a man in a suit, and Jeff squints at him, draws his knees up to his chest, wary. 

“Hello, Jeff,” he says. “Welcome to Columbus.” 

His name is Scott Howson. He is Jeff’s new GM. Howson’s eyes take in the bandages that Jeff has torn off and pitched towards the corner of the room. “I see you’ve discovered your new additions.” He nods at Jeff’s chest. “You’re in an interesting position, Jeff. Stripped of citizenship and without a country. A domestic import, if you will.” He smiles, amused by this line, and the skin of his face stretches awkwardly, pulls tight. “But don’t worry. You’ll be afforded all the rights and privileges we give all our imports. Once you’re proven you can be trusted. You’ll be a part of the team in no time.” 

Howson has got to be kidding. Jeff is in a bare, fucking cell, stripped of _everything_ – and maybe, maybe it was worth it when hockey was a prayer of getting out, of getting free; maybe it was worth it when he had skated with people who he trusted, who he _loved –_ but now? Here? He tries to speak. His throat is raw, and his voice is gravelly when he does manage to find it. “I’m done playing hockey.” __

Howson frowns. “You’re on my team, Jeff. And while you were cheap, you weren’t free. You will play.” 

Jeff lets his eyes fall closed. He’s dizzy, exhausted, and what does Howson think he has left to threaten Jeff with, anyway? “Fuck you. And fuck your team.” 

He can hear Howson shuffling his weight. Howson sighs. “I’m going to give you some time to reconsider, Jeff. I hope you will. Because the only people on my team who don’t play are on IR.” 

 

 

 

 

They leave him for a long time. 

He starts out keeping track of the days – measured in the intervals from when the lights snap on, all at once in an artificial dawn, to when they fade, just as sudden, into an artificial night. But he loses count, because sometimes the food that’s delivered makes his mind go fuzzy, makes him black out, and he wakes up with fresh bandages, or wet from the cell having been hosed down. Or sometimes he wakes up and nothing noticeable will have been done to him at all, and the uncertainty of it, the not knowing – that’s somehow _worse_. 

He avoids the food they send him for long stretches, terrified. Until he is _so hungry_ that he gives in, then sits _waiting_ , like he’s playing Russian roulette with a fucking _sandwich_. 

It gets harder and harder to keep his mind occupied. Early on, he made the mistake of letting himself think about Mike, about Julia and Philadelphia, and spent the night gasping and breathless, curled in a hysterical ball. Now he makes up exercises for his brain: murmurs half-remembered book passages to himself, hums to himself, tries to name every player he’s ever skated against, to list everyone he’s ever been on a line with alphabetically. By sweater number. He skips past 18. 

 

 

 

 

The door clicking open is terrifying and also a relief _,_ because he had half-convinced himself that this was it, that he was just going to sit here, forgotten, forever _._ And that jolt, that realization, that Howson’s using that to play him – is enough to make him furious, and more clear-headed than he’s been in – 

In however long he’s been here. 

When Howson asks again, Jeff swallows his terror and spits, “Fuck off. I’m not playing for you.” 

Howson frowns, looking rather put out. And then he raps on the door. He’s suddenly flanked by two attendants. Two _large_ attendants. 

Jeff presses back into the wall, inhaling sharply. He eyes them, thoughts going a little frantic. 

They look bored. 

It’s not even a contest really – Jeff’s still a hockey player, still 6’4” – but he’s been doing nothing but sitting around and _not eating_ , and there are twoof them. 

The next few moments are a blur, first of fighting, then of writhing in their grip, then of being held down, held still. They inject him with something that makes the room go soft at the edges, gives the ceiling lights halos, and makes it impossible to successfully coordinate the movements of his limbs. When they let him go, he drops to the floor gracelessly. And then he’s being half-dragged, half-carried. He’s flailing, dizzy, vaguely aware that’s he’s been taken somewhere with the white walls and the sharp, astringent smell of a medical facility. 

He ends up flat on his back on a table. The lights seem ridiculously bright. His head lolls to the side, and everything feels out of focus, blurred – but then, very distinctly, he hears a voice say, “Jeff, did you know there are twenty-six bones in the human foot?” Jeff twists, pulling away the best he can, but there are hands on his shoulders, holding him in place. The speaker is moving. “And you with a history of foot injuries.” 

He can’t track the speaker. He can’t _see_. He gets a flare of panic. There’s something hard and cold pressed against the arch of his foot, and then just a blinding, searing pain. 

Back in his cell, he curls protectively around his foot. The pain makes it hard to catch his breath, he’s just gasping, nails digging into the palms of his hand. He presses his face into the floor, and he can hear himself making some horrible whining, keening noise – but fuck it, it’s not like there’s anyone around to hear him. 

 

 

 

 

By the second day, the pain has settled into a steady throb that follows his heartbeat. Better when he stays curled motionless on the floor, worse when he tries to move. He stays as still as possible, lost in a state of fitful half-sleep. He dreams of Philadelphia. Of Mike. _Julia._

That first summer he stayed in Philly, Julia had kept a room in an old Victorian house near Clark park, with west-facing windows that poured afternoon light across her bed. Julia had a way of sweeping reality aside. Their biggest decision when to get up. Their biggest concern the clatter the coffee mugs made as they went tumbling to the floor when he grabbed her, tossed her onto the bed. 

He can still hear Julia’s muffled laughter, see the bright, satisfied smile she had when he put his hands on her. 

He whispered secrets to her in that room, lying in her bed, her head pillowed on his chest. Things that were impossible to say anywhere else. Impossible to say even to Mike, whose empathy was brash and overwhelming. Whose pain on Jeff’s behalf would be so clear on his face that it made Jeff’s chest ache all the more. He told her about bare concrete walls, about the terrifying, gaping loneliness that had gripped him when he was first sent away. About his mother’s face when he’d come back, almost unrecognizably aged. How she’d barely spoken, like every word drained energy she didn’t have. 

Julia absorbed all those murmured words. Seeming so delicate but utterly implacable, unshakable. Her fingers trailing over his arm in an uninterrupted rhythm when he confessed all his fears, all the dark things, everything that kept him up at night. And she was steady, even when his voice caught, even when the words were choked and rasped out. 

“I miss my family, too,” was the most she ever said, something heavy and dark lurking in her gaze. 

And even now, he can picture her clearly, the way her dark hair had spilled across the pillows. The way she had looked one afternoon, naked and uncovered, when he had smiled down at her and said, “You’re looking rather angelic.” 

“Well.” She smirked up at him, eyes dancing. “We both know that’s not true.” And she’d pulled him down against her. 

She always felt so tiny under his hands. 

Jeff had laughed, had said, “I don’t believe you. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” 

She ran her hands over his face. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” 

He might, now. But Jeff doesn’t think about that. He keeps her memory crystallized: syrupy afternoon light, a room isolated from the sounds of the street below, her touch on his skin. He doesn’t think about anything that came after. 

He still reaches for Mike every time he wakes up. And every time his hand passes through the empty air, it’s like a physical fall. An impact so real it knocks the breath from him. And he thinks, _please let him be safe. Please let this have been enough. Please let him be okay._

 

 

 

 

Howson visits him again. “The season’s starting soon,” he says. 

Jeff rolls away so he doesn’t have to listen. 

 

 

 

 

The pain is a drumbeat, one that starts deep inside his foot and reverberates outward, until it feels like his skin should split and peel back to let it all out. When they kill the lights in his cell, it’s the only sensation, the only thing he feels, and he loses track of it, until it’s _not_ a feeling and it _is_ a sound, and it echoes around the small room, bouncing off the walls. 

During the day, Jeff starts to imagine the pain as an animal – a scorpion, or a _snake_ – that he can actually make climb out of his foot and wander the room. 

He’s just sent the snake _– red, iridescent_ – slithering up one of the walls, when the door opens. The snake _hisses_ and Jeff steadies himself, but it’s not Howson. 

  
It’s an utterly bland, brown-haired man. Jeff sizes him up. Everything about him looks mild-mannered, but he’s tall. Built broad, too. Built like a hockey player. Jeff squints. “Let me guess – ” His voice gives out, and he has to swallow before continuing. “You’re the Captain?” 

The guy nods. “I’m Nash. Rick Nash.” He shuffles forward into the room awkwardly. Jeff’s in his usual place, slouched against the far wall, foot stretched out in front of him. Nash looks sort of disgusted. Jeff drops his gaze, switches to watching his snake instead. 

In light of Jeff’s continued silence, Nash asks, “So what do they call you? Carts? Cartsy?” 

It takes a lot of Jeff’s focus to keep the pain in the snake and not in his foot, and Nash is distracting him. “Carts, mostly,” Jeff answers, irritated. “But you should feel free to call me Carter.” He flicks his gaze back to meet Nash’s eyes before looking away again. “And you’ve been sent here to convince me to play?” 

Nash is frowning. “Yeah. I’m not going to bullshit you, Carter. They want you to play. I want you to play. And I don’t understand why you’re not willing to make the best of this situation. I know you don’t want to be here, but whatever you did in the Orange, whatever made them trade you – that’s not on Columbus. That’s on you.” 

The snake flickers, going transparent for a second. “You don’t know _shit_ about what I did in Philly.” 

Nash holds his hands up, palms out. “You’re right, I don’t. I just know you’re in the Silver  & Blue now. This is where you have an opportunity to play. So why not play?” 

Jeff scrapes his teeth over his lip. “Why not play?” He points at his chest, at his _barcode_. “How about because they put this here?” He holds up his foot. The motion makes his head swim. “How about because they _broke_ my fucking _foot?_ ” 

Nash steps back, looking pale. 

Jeff closes his eyes; his anger’s fading, leaving him exhausted in its wake. “Leave me alone.” 

 

 

 

 

Nash is back the next day. The scorpion is crawling over the back of Jeff’s hand. If he concentrates, he can feel the tiny pinprick of its feet on his skin. 

Nash clears his throat. “I didn’t know about the foot thing,” he says. “That’s not okay.” 

Jeff _laughs_. 

Nash shuffles uncomfortably. “Look, if you agree to skate. Just _skate_ , I could get you a shower. Some clothes.” 

Jeff blinks and looks down with a renewed awareness of his own nakedness. He’s dressed in his PerT tags and nothing else, and hasn’t been since – _fuck_ , how long has he even been here? 

Nash kneels down so that he’s eye level, and Jeff draws back, edgy and ready to scramble away. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, or what you expected, but – ” Nash huffs out a frustrated breath. “When I said I wanted a top line center, this isn’t exactly what I was expecting either.” He looks pointedly at Jeff. Jeff takes a second to think about what he must look like. What he must _smell_ like. “Also,” Nash leans closer and Jeff tenses. “Someone’s looking for you.” 

_Mike._ Mike’s looking for him. Jeff grabs Nash’s arm. “Did you… did you tell him where I am?” He can hear the raw desperation in his own voice. 

Nash hesitates. 

And, it’s humiliating, but, “Please tell him. _Please.”_

But Nash just shakes his head, glancing around the room. “Maybe if you come out, maybe if you skate. But we can’t talk about it here. ” 

He leaves Jeff frozen, breath coming too fast. On the inside he’s shaking. Because it’s got to be Mike. It has to be Mike. 

 

 

 

 

The first thing they do the next day is head to the trainers’ room. Nash takes him out of his room, down the hall, and through a set of double doors. When Jeff looks back the way they came, the letters over the doorway read HOSPITAL WING. The medicinal smell of the trainers’ room hits him, and Jeff freezes in the doorway – his mind lit up with memories of bright lights and being pressed back, held down. Nash turns and looks at him like he’s crazy. Jeff makes himself take a step forward into the room. 

The trainer comes at him with a needle, and Jeff has to close his eyes. His whole body leaning away from it, hands grabbing at the edge of the table he’s sitting on. Cold fingers run up the instep of his foot, and there’s a spike of pain, like burning, and then – nothing. Just a blessed numbness spreading throughout his foot. 

The absence of pain is like a revelation, a stone lifting off his chest. He sucks in air – he can even _breathe_ deeper. When he opens his eyes he has to look, to check to see that his foot is still there – and it is – he just can’t _feel_ it. Nash takes him to the locker room – it’s empty – and leads him straight through to the showers, Jeff shuffling along behind him. Jeff peels off the scrubs Nash gave him for the journey and stands under the spray. 

He scrubs and rinses. It’s the single most amazing thing he’s ever felt. He scrubs again, and he’s sliding his hands over his torso, when he thinks – _he’s gotten ribby again, Mike would be pissed._

And – _oh, fuck –_ it hits him all over again that he’s not going to see Mike. Not ever. Even if he _was_ playing, the Silver & Blue doesn’t play the Orange but once every couple of years, and Howson would be an _idiot_ to let him dress for that game. He turns his face into the spray, fighting down the panic, willing himself not to think about it. He stays there as long as Nash lets him. 

“Carter?” Nash finally says. He’s holding out a towel. 

Jeff gets his breathing under control. Turns the water off. 

Nash _looks_ at him when he hands the towel over, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Jeff studies his reflection in the mirror. He looks _crazy_. Hair too long. Beard scraggly. Even his skin looks different, like it’s covered in a gray film. He studies his new tattoo. “Can I shave?” 

Nash meets his eyes in the mirror. “I can’t give you a razor.” Of course not. “But, you can borrow mine,” Nash also lets him borrow someone’s clippers to buzz his hair short. If anything, it makes him look more skeletal, but it seems simpler. And at least he’s clean. 

He gets why skating practice is happening solo when he steps out onto the ice the first time and falls the fuck down. Getting up is tricky, because it’s like his right leg ends in a block of wood instead of a foot. He hasn’t been this clumsy on the ice since – actually, he can’t remember _ever_ being this clumsy on the ice. 

Nash just watches him silently as he figures it out, as he practices shifting his weight onto his right foot and off it again, practices pushing off. Nash watches him eat it when he tries a hockey stop. 

Lying on the ice, Jeff says, “I used to be better at this.” 

“I know,” Nash answers him. “I watched you in the Cup Final.” 

Well, Jeff thinks, at least there’s that. 

He makes it half an hour before he’s too winded to do anymore. And that’s just sad. He gets to shower again, which almost makes the whole humiliating episode worthwhile. He gets a real, actual t-shirt to put on. Real fucking sweatpants. The shoes Nash gives him are little more than glorified house slippers, but if that’s what’s on offer, he’ll take it. 

He pauses in putting them on, carefully not looking at Nash. “You said… you said someone was looking for me. Do you have a phone? Did you tell him? Did you let him know where I am?” 

There’s silence from across the room. When Jeff dares to look over, Nash is chewing on his lip. He looks uncomfortable. “I don’t have a phone, it’s, um,” he hesitates. “One of my guys. I don’t like for them to have phones, either – I think it puts them in danger. But he was asking about you, and I’m not stupid. I know where that information comes from.” 

That gives Jeff pause. “The rest of the team… doesn’t know I’m here?” 

Nash shakes his head. “Just me, Coach, and Howson.” 

Right. The easier to disappear him, if need be. 

“Carter, look.” Nash twists a water bottle in his hands. “If you’re that intent on not playing for the Silver  & Blue, your only way out of here is to get traded. You’re not going to get traded unless someone wants you – and for that they have to see you play.” 

Yeah. Jeff gets that. “But there’s only one team I want to play for. And they don’t want me.” 

Nash looks over at him, curious. “Okay. But the guy looking for you isn’t on the Orange. He’s on the Black.” 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

These days, John Stevens hates the airport. Not that he was ever overly fond of it, but _these days_ it seems outside of teams, the only people who fly are generals in their flashy dress uniforms – medals pinned to their chest, bright and gaudy like so much costume jewelry – and men in suits that cost more than John will make in three lifetimes, men who have bought themselves out of their years. 

He’s definitely the only one in the room wearing tags. Well, him and the janitor. 

He eventually spots Richards stumbling down the jet way, looking wide-eyed and frankly rather shell-shocked. John recognizes that look – the expression of someone who has unexpectedly found themselves booted cross-country. After all, once upon a time _John_ was drafted by Philadelphia. John sweated for them and bled for them. Got moved by them: traded and waived, re-claimed and re-hired, and when he couldn’t play anymore, he coached for them. 

When they were done with him – much like they are apparently now done with Mike Richards – they sent him packing. 

And now Richards has also found a landing spot in Dean Lombardi’s uneasy graces. 

_In Dean we trust,_ John thinks, only half sarcastically. Richards scans the crowd, face open and unguarded in that way people who don’t know they’re being watched look. He doesn’t look much like a captain _(2003 draft,_ his brain reminds him, _24 thoverall, two-way center. Perennial point leader). _He looks lost. He looks young. 

_Dear Anna,_ John composes a letter in his head, _Today something happened that made me think of Philadelphia, made me miss it more vividly than I have in months. Almost as much as I miss you and the kids._

__

Richards’ eyes finally pick him out of the crowd. “Oh, _shit_.” 

Typical. In another life, John would be able to _laugh_. He’d call him _Richie,_ or maybe even _Mike_. Instead, he schools his face into an expression of bland annoyance. “Welcome to Los Angeles, Richards.” 

 

 

 

 

John navigates them carefully through the checkpoints and out onto the highway that will take them to Staples Center, squinting as they emerge into the midsummer sun. Richards has been quiet next to him, staring moodily out the window. At one point, craning his head to get a better view of the bedraggled palm trees that line the roadway. He asks, “What’s wrong with the trees here?” 

John frowns a little. “They’re palms. They’re supposed to look like that.” 

Richards purses his lips, seemingly unconvinced. “Are you the coach here?” he asks abruptly. 

John’s hands tighten on the wheel. “I’m the assistant coach. Under Terry Murray.” He glances over at Richards. “Do you remember Murray?” 

Richards shakes his head. 

“He was a scout for the Orange the year you played for the Phantoms. He would have been the one who brought you and Carter down from the draft to the Phantom’s camp.” 

There’s no answer, and when John glances over again, Richards’ expression has gone tight, closed off. His throat works. John looks back out over the road. Taps the steering wheel lightly. “We play the Orange in October. In case you were wondering when you might see – ” 

“Carts’ not with the Orange anymore,” Mike interrupts, short and sharp. 

John glances over in surprise. “Where was he – ” 

“I don’t know.” Richards fixes his gaze firmly out the window. “I don’t know where he is now.” 

They make the rest of the trip in silence. 

 

 

 

 

Fall in the Black is just a slow fade of summer. The days grow shorter, but the temperature hardly varies. And even if it’s cooler than it once was – than it was _before_ – it’s nothing like being back in the Orange. 

_Dear Anna_ , John composes, _it was sunny today. Can you remember the last time we had a sunny day in the Orange in September? Me neither._

__

John is watching the Black run their pre-practice warm up. Brown cuts away from the line and skates over to the bench. “Hey Coach.” 

“Brown.” 

Brown holds up his stick. “Think you could take a look at this? It’s futzing up on me again.” The diodes along the side are, in fact, flickering erratically. 

John quirks an eyebrow at him. “I’m not the equipment manager,” he deadpans. 

“Yeah, but I heard you’re good with these.” Brown grins – wide and gap-toothed. Dustin Brown wears the ‘C’ for the Black with a relatively lighthearted ease, or at least he carries it easier than some captains John could name. And for all his focus on the ice, he’s never taken John’s straight-laced act too seriously. Especially impressive given all the secrets they share. 

He’s also pretty hard on his equipment. 

John unbends enough to smile, just a little. He was still playing the first year they switched over. That first year, the sticks had been _worthless_. Just as likely to die midway through a game as not. Back in those days, it was either get good with a paperclip and soldering iron, or resign yourself to lugging around a uselessly heavy chunk of metal and fiberglass. “Give it here.” He uses his pocketknife to crack open the back panel and expose the wiring, pokes around until he finds where one of the wires has kinked and frayed, and makes a quick patch. Handing it back to Brown, he says, “Here. This should hold for practice anyway – get Smith to solder it for you when you get the chance.” 

“You got it.” Brown pauses to kick a stray puck back towards the play. It’s Richards who’s chasing it down, although he’s taking his sweet time about it, and he glances darkly at both John and Brown before skating off with it. 

John nods towards Richards’ receding back. “How’s he settling in?” 

Brown pauses and makes a face like he’s trying to come up with something diplomatic to say. “Ricky? Well. He’s definitely not going out of his way to make friends.” 

John brings a hand up to rub his temple. 

“Oh, but – ” Brown gestures with his stick. “He likes Pens. He and Pens get along.” 

And Richards _would_ be making friends with John’s other problem child. He sighs. 

“He’ll come around, Coach,” Brown assures him. “You’ll see.” 

 

 

 

 

Richards does not _come around_. After a listless preseason, Richards has been frustratingly uneven – flashes of brilliance followed by games where he hardly looks awake. These days it’s tough to make the argument that the players are spoiled, but John can’t help wanting to take him aside and shake him. Tell him, _We don’t always get what we want, Richards. Sometimes shit happens. Suck it up._

__

Perhaps most frustrating though, is that in John’s daily meetings with Murray, he finds himself stuck in the position of _defending_ Richards. Lately, going down the list, when they get to Richards, Murray just raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s still early,” John hedges. 

Murray frowns. “Early – yeah. But I’m not seeing the effort. Not in practice, not in games. I’ve tried him with a _bunch_ of different wingers, but so far he’s not gelling with anyone – ” 

This, unfortunately, is a pretty fair assessment. When Richards isn’t being a lazy asshole on the ice, he’s being a dick off the ice, ignoring everything and everyone in favor of keeping his nose buried in that _fucking phone_. 

It pisses John off how blatant he is about it, like John is supposed to believe it really is a legal, _for-local-use-only_ phone – that he’s just messaging the guys on the team, or scrolling through his fucking music collection, or whatever it is that the players tell themselves the coaches think they’re doing. 

John is so fucking tired of these I-know-you-know-I-know games. John is tired of pretending to be fucking _blind_. “He does better with consistency,” he finally says. “He’ll be better once we can get him some consistent line mates.” 

“For your sake I hope so.” Murray folds his hands on the desk and leans forward. “This was your pull, John. You lobbied Lombardi to take him on.” 

“Richards is a solid player. He was a good pickup.” 

Murray’s face tells John he hasn’t quite managed to keep the defensive note out of his voice. “And I’m sure it had _nothing_ to do with the trouble you both got into in Philadelphia.” Murray’s laying on the sarcasm pretty thick, but then he waves a dismissive hand. “Richards better step it up. Now talk to me about Kopitar.” 

 

 

 

 

On Friday, they fly to Philadelphia, because for the first of the very few inter-conference matchups they’ll get this year, they have drawn the Orange. It’s either fate or Paul Holmgren looking to gloat. 

Yeah. John doesn’t put much stock in _fate._

__

Before the game, the room is edgy. They’re coming off back to back losses, and everyone’s body is convinced it’s three hours earlier. “The Orange is going to come out fast,” John tells them. “They’re an aggressive team. We need to stay focused. Disciplined.” He glances at Richards. Richards is staring a hole in the carpet. There’s a muscle jumping in his jaw. But he’s flanked on either side by Williams and Gagne – both formerly of the Orange as well. Gagne sets a hand on Richards’ back and looks up to meet John’s gaze. He nods once, slightly, and John looks away. There’s nothing he could say, anyway. Nothing that wouldn’t draw more attention to it. Make it _worse_. 

Even if he doesn’t get to step out onto the ice any more, John’s heart still beats faster when the lights go down. All day he’s been getting flashes of déjà vu – walking down the hall. The tunnel. The doors to the building. But it’s the worst _here –_ on the bench, in the arena. The crowd is screaming. Waving orange flags. Not for him, John reminds himself. Not ever for him again. But there’s a part of him that can’t stop scanning the crowd, looking for familiar faces. As stupid as it is, he can’t help but _hope_. 

A carpeted runway is rolled out, and the spotlight focuses on the center of the arena, as a Morality Officer shuffles out to give the opening prayer. He’s dressed in long, dark robes, trimmed in orange. 

_My ice_ , John thinks. _Get off my ice._ Something bitter twists in his gut. 

Murray sends Richards out for the opening faceoff, because he’s never been one to peel the Band-Aid back slow. 

It’s vicious from the start. Doughty catches the pass from the opening faceoff, and after playing catch with Mitchell, John sees him spot his opening, and he threads in across the blue line, weaving between Orange players, moving nicely – until Rinaldo takes a flying leap and fucking _rocks_ him. 

Penner immediately drops his gloves. John glances at the play clock – they’re less than a minute in. That didn’t take long. 

The upshot is that Doughty’s done. Penner’s done because he managed to hurt himself. _Fucking Penner._ So now the Black is playing with a short bench, and Philly has a power play. 

The Orange has Briere, Giroux, and Jagr on the ice – and score one for Laviolette because they’re waltzing through the Black’s D as if they were standing still. There’s a flurry of shots on Quick – which he’s blocking, throwing himself sideways to catch the rebound – but John can sense things escalating; the Orange is moving _faster_ , the puck moving fluidly east-west in front of the goal mouth – any minute now they’re going to draw Quick too far to one side – shoot too fast for him to get back up – 

“Focus,” John says, like they can hear him. “Clear it!” 

Instead, Greene slashes at Jagr’s stick, hard enough for it to disintegrate in Jagr’s hands, sending up a spray of sparks. 

Well. That’s one way to stop play. 

The Orange scores on the resulting five-on-three. Hard to be surprised by that. __

__

 

 

 

 

In the locker room after the first, Quick is pissed. “He knocked me over. There should have been an interference call.” 

This may or may not be true. “But there wasn’t,” John says. “So get over it.” 

“There _should_ have been a fucking charging call on Rinaldo,” Brown mutters. 

This is almost certainly true. But still irrelevant. “Keep getting the puck to the net. Mitchell, keep your eye on Briere – we keep losing him in front of the goal. He likes setting up blocker side.” He rounds on the other side of the room. “And – Richards, we’re here to play hockey, not shit talk. Stay focused.” Richards has been jawing back and forth with anyone and everyone on the Philly bench. John does not need _that_ boiling over. Richards glares at him. 

But immediately out of the gate in the second, Richards takes a hit from one of Philly’s D-men, and he’s shoving back angrily. Greene gets between them, and then one of the linesmen is there, holding Richards back. But even as Richards is coming off the ice, he’s still mouthing off at the Orange player. He looks furious, vicious, and he’s leaning around the glass so he can keep screaming towards the Orange’s bench. _“Fuck you_ ,” he snarls. “You don’t know _shit.”_

__

_“_ Fuck _you,_ ” the Philly D-man answers him. “I know what I saw! And I know he was a fucking _cocksucking – ”_

__

_“Don’t fucking talk about him!”_ Richards is practically spitting now, and John edges over on the off-chance he decides to launch himself at Philly’s bench. Because that is starting to look like a distinct possibility. And now that he’s closer, he can see who Richards is yelling at. It’s Voight. _Sophomore,_ John’s brain supplies instantly, _2009 draft class, second round. Left handed shot. Likes the low post._ “He was fucking _good_ to you!” Richards screams. “He was fucking _nice_ to you, when you were a mewling, pathetic little – ” 

“Fuck you, you fucking faggot!” Voight answers him. “I hope they fucking arrest your ass the same way they did him!” 

That’s enough. “Richards – ” John gets a hand on him. Richards’ shoulders are heaving. He looks back at John, wild-eyed. “Sit the fuck down.” Richards resists his tug at first. “Sit down, Richards. Keep it on the ice.” 

Richards’ eyes flash, his mouth still curled in a snarl. But he sits. 

“Is this going to be a problem?” Murray asks. “I would prefer not to have my second line center ejected.” 

John hazards another look at Richards, who is still practically trembling with rage. “Maybe give Westgarth a shift?” 

Murray nods. “Do it.” 

Kevin Westgarth is 6’4”, 230 lbs, and currently leading the team in PIMs. “Westgarth,” John says, before sending him out, “I would really prefer not to lose Richards to a game misconduct.” 

Westgarth looks over at Richards and raises an eyebrow before glancing back at John. “You got it, boss.” 

And even if John is technically supposed to be reminding his players to focus on hockey, supposed to be the enforcer of discipline, there is still something profoundly satisfying about watching Westgarth beat the snot out of Voight. 

Richards watches the fight blinking rapidly. He looks _surprised_ , like he somehow didn’t realize it was coming. “There you go, Ricky,” Mitchell says, patting him on the shoulder. “Problem solved.” Richards glances rapidly between Mitchell and the ice. His mouth is hanging open and then he looks sharply back at John. 

John inclines his head, ever so slightly. 

Richards’ mouth snaps shut. He looks back out on the ice. His expression focuses, and John smiles, because Mike Richards is suddenly _in the game._

With Richards playing well, they manage to tie it up near the end of the third, and better than that – they go into OT on the power play. Murray hesitates just a second before saying, “Richards. Go.” Richards’ unit hits the ice, and he sets them up once, a quick centering pass to Brown in front of the net. Brown battles for the rebound in a way that has John’s fingers flexing around the edge of his clipboard. The Orange goalie makes the save and one of the Orange’s D-men tries to clear – 

But Richards keeps it in, sets them up again with a quick one-timer. 

And it’s _in_. 

John allows himself a quick glance up towards the skyboxes. He brings a hand to his mouth to hide the grin. 

 

 

 

 

They’ve been back in LA for less than a day, and John needs to rearrange the defensive pairings to get around Doughty’s injury, figure out his opinions on waiving a couple fading vets so he can make recommendations to Murray, and watch about a thousand hours of game tape of the Gold – a team he knows next to nothing about, but who they’re somehow scheduled to play _three_ times in the next couple weeks. So it’s not exactly welcome when Murray pokes his head in and says, “I need you to have a talk with Richards about his attitude.” 

Murray’s just finished holding their first post-Philly practice, and while John wasn’t there to watch, this is clearly a sign that it didn’t go well. _Penance,_ John thinks, _this is clearly penance._

__

 

 

 

 

Richards arrives at John’s office with a sullen, suspicious expression. 

John opens with, “Good game. Especially the third.” 

Richards merely shrugs. 

John sighs. Somehow, he thinks, _chin up_ isn’t going to cut it. Maybe it’s time to suck it up and get to the heart of the matter. “What happened in Philly, Richards?” 

Richards looks at him out of the corner of his eye, face going insolent. “We won, remember? You were there.” 

_Dear Anna, Today I murdered Mike Richards with my bare hands. Because he deserved it._ “With the trade. What went down in Philly when you and Carter were traded?” 

John has known Mike Richards since he was seventeen years old and a smirking, eye-rolling rookie on the AHL team John coached. Since then, Richards has been a more-or-less constant thorn – mouthing off and going out of his way to undermine John’s authority, seemingly convinced that the team he plays on is his and his alone, that the rules are for everyone _but_ him, and that he is utterly entitled to the minutes he wants, to the line mates he wants, to play for the team he wants to play for. 

It would be very easy for John to hate Mike Richards, and yet, there is a part of John (a small, unwilling part) that _likes_ him. When he’s on, he plays fast, brutal, _smart_ hockey. He cares about the game and about his teammates in a way that’s hard not to appreciate. He also seems totally incapable of masking that concern – his face advertises every fucking thing he feels, and this is no exception: his jaw goes tight when John mentions Carter. 

John is not stupid. John is aware Richards and Carter were _friends_. Friends in a way John deliberately tried to know as little about as possible. It is one of the greater stupidities of the Union, John considers, that they think they can lock teenage boys up together, deprive them of all access to the world, and not expect _things like that_ to happen. 

Richards glares hard down at the desk. “I don’t know. We just got traded.” 

It’s clearly a lie, but it’s not like John can call him out on it. There’s a dozen half-truths on the table between them, invisible and unspoken. A hundred secrets, John imagines. Maybe more. 

But not all those secrets are John’s to share. 

Yet, they’re not going to get anywhere like this. “I think you’re lying,” he says mildly. He ignores Richards’ flash of anger and presses on. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll help you find him.” 

A startled expression flickers across Richards’ face, and he blinks at John, before his features settle into something more closed off. “What do you mean?” 

“I’m not a fucking idiot, Richards. I know you’re looking for Carter. How many hours a day do you think you and Pens can spend with your noses buried in those fucking phones before I know you’re not just texting _each other_?” 

Richards continues to eye him with wary concern. “Why would you help me?” 

Fact: John works for Dean Lombardi. Lombardi, for all his deliberate obfuscation and slipperiness, has made it clear that he has A Plan, and that that Plan involves winning the Stanley Cup. Fact: this team cannot win the Stanley Cup without Mike Richards playing his best hockey. “I want to win hockey games,” John says carefully. “In order to do that, I need _you.”_

Richards is still watching his face, and then he shakes his head. “I think _you’re_ lying.” His tone is a perfect echo of John’s. “I don’t think this is about winning hockey games for you.” 

_Congratulations, Richards,_ John thinks. _Welcome to the brave new world._ “You can accomplish a lot by winning games. Screwing Paul Holmgren, for example, is a goal I think we can all get behind.” He pauses. “Richie.” 

His gamble pays off – the corner of Richards’ mouth slowly curves up at John’s use of the nickname. “I guess so. _John_.” 

John smiles. 

Richie sits back in his chair. He seems to be casting around for a place to begin. He starts to say something and then stops. “Holmgren… wanted us to lose in the Final.” 

Well. That at least solves the mystery of why Holmgren was so insistent about restructuring all the rookie contracts. Making Free Agency contingent on a Cup win would be a genius way to keep everyone locked up – _if_ you could guarantee the loss. 

Richie glances back at John, checking his reaction. “He wanted me to help him.” 

John frowns. “Did you?” 

“Yeah – at first.” Richards looks sick. “He said it would help the Blue  & White, if we lost. And that’s where – my family – ” 

“And you _believed_ him?” 

Richie flashes him an angry look. “It made sense at the time.” 

John drums his fingers absently. Holmgren was already making overtures towards the Silver & Blue when John was there. If he’s aligning himself with the Red, that empire would be _massive_. But who knows what plans that man has. Just trying to follow his twisted trains of logic makes John’s head hurt. He drags himself back to the present, where Richards – _Richie –_ is still glaring at him. “So what happened?” __

Richie shakes his head, scowling. “He was lying. And I – I fucked up. I said some things. Did some things. I didn’t think he could… I didn’t think he could trade us.” He shrugs nonchalantly, but the gesture looks forced. “But he did.” 

Knowing Holmgren, he would have wanted his team on lockdown. He wouldn’t have jettisoned Richie unless he thought he was a threat. “You stopped cooperating, and he traded you?” 

Richie nods. “Yeah.” 

“And Carter? Why was Carter traded?” 

Richie pauses, looking away. “I did some things,” he repeats slowly. “And Carts took the blame for them.” He looks back at John, eyes dark like he’s willing John not to ask, and it’s hardly the whole truth, but John’s willing to let that slide. It’s a start. 

“I can’t find him,” Richie blurts suddenly. “I thought when the season started – but I can’t find him.” There’s a desperate edge in his voice. “Do you think you can?” 

“Play, Richie, and I’ll try.” 

 

 

 

 

The days where John could just call up any reporter, agent, or the fucking League office to find out where Carter is are over. John can hear Lombardi’s voice in his head: _depriving us of information,_ he likes to say, _is a weapon._ But John still has his own connections. The trick is using the League-sanctioned phone lines without tipping anyone off that he’s looking for info on Carter. Carter’s not showing up on anyone’s active roster, but that doesn’t mean he’s not on someone’s _team_. 

“We’re considering shopping a top six forward,” he tells the Teal’s assistant GM on the phone, “I just want to know what the going rate is.” Best case scenario: one of the teams he calls up will spontaneously tell him what they just picked up Carter for. Everybody loves bragging about what a good deal they drove. Worst case scenario: John gets bitched out by one of Lombardi’s assistants for starting trade rumors. John considers that tradeoff an acceptable risk. 

“Top six, huh? Center or wing?” 

John pauses. “Flexible.” 

“Well, we’re not really in the market. But a prospect and a first-rounder, I’d say.” 

John gets the same feedback from several others. Nobody casually mentions that they’ve just picked up Carter. In fact, nobody mentions Carter at all. 

Curious. 

He goes back to his roster notes. Makes a list of teams he’s heard have new faces in the lineup this fall, cross-references that with the teams those players used to be on. After that it’s just a matter of logging hours on the phone, starting with Holmgren’s favorite dancing partners. “So you shipped Voracek, huh?” 

MacFarland – assistant GM over in the Silver  & Blue – sighs. “Yeah, and now I kinda wish we hadn’t – we’ve having a hard time keeping Brassard healthy, so our right side is looking a little thin.” 

“Why not just bump him over to IR and call up a prospect?” John asks. 

“I wish. Our IR list is full.” 

John pauses, and then he’s madly scrambling through the papers on his desk, because _Sanford_ should be on there, but _who else?_ “Oh yeah?” he cages, trying to buy himself time. “You’ve got Sanford on there…” He finds the paper he’s looking for, “Huselius…” 

“Yeah,” MacFarland answers absently, “Huselius and some import forward Howson picked up this summer.” 

John frowns. _Import?_ “From where?” 

“Uh, you know – I don’t know. Howson’s playing this one pretty close to the chest. I haven’t even seen him skate yet.” 

“Yeah, well,” John trails off, suddenly eager to be off the phone. “Good luck with that.” 

“Ha, thanks. Talk to you later, John.” 

John murmurs his goodbye and hangs up. He drums his fingers across the desk. _Import_ hardly makes sense. But the rest of it fits. 

The thought’s still nagging at him later in the day, as they’re finishing up practice. “Hey, Brownie.” Brown pauses on his way off the ice. “Your wife still working for the League?” 

Brown nods. “Yeah, why?” 

“I need a favor.” 

Brown smiles at him. “Well, then. Come over for dinner and ask her yourself.” 

 

 

 

 

Brown is married, and has a house just down the road from their practice rink. John tries not to be bitter about his intact family unit. It doesn’t always work. Brown’s wife answers the door with one of their sons on her hip. “John.” 

“Nicole.” 

“Come in.” She gestures him through the doorway. “Dinner’s almost ready.” 

“I don’t mean to intrude,” he says, stepping into the house. “I know Brownie didn’t give you much notice.” 

She gives him a wry look. “You’ll sit with us and you’ll eat, John. And Dustin’s done worse.” She nods towards the living room. “He’s just through there.” 

When John walks in, Brown is sprawled on the living room floor, playing with his eldest. The scene makes something sharp twist up inside him and for a split second he is so full of longing that he literally _cannot breathe_. 

Brown glances up, and something must show on John’s face because Brown is regarding at him with something like sympathy. “Hey, Coach.” He gestures down at his son. “Want to help us build a castle?” 

“Sure,” John says. “Sure.” 

After dinner, Nicole pours him a glass of raspberry wine. “It’s my first attempt,” she says. “You’ll have to tell me if it’s any good.” 

John takes a sip and chokes a little. “It’s good,” he manages. 

“Ha.” She laughs at him. “This favor you want must be really big.” 

He smiles at her, a bit sheepish. “You still working the switchboard?” 

“Switchboard operator. One of the few jobs still deemed acceptable women’s work.” She rolls her eyes. 

John sets the glass down and leans forward, looking at her. “Sometimes when I’m relaying information to the league, and the connection isn’t great, the operator will call me back and ask me to repeat something.” 

Nicole matches him lean for lean, look for look. “Yes. And?” 

“I want to know who the Silver  & Blue has on their injured reserve list.” He waits. 

She looks down at her hands and then back up at him, frowning. “I trust this is about the bigger picture – what we’re all working towards, and not just about winning games?” 

John smirks. “I don’t need to cheat to win games.” 

Nicole smiles back at him. “Then I can get that for you. Easy.” 

Two days later, getting on their bus to the Gold, Brown gives him a _look_ and a slip of paper. It reads: 

_Curtis Sanford_

_Kristian Huselius_

_Jeff Carter_

 

 

 

 

The team meal is the first chance he gets to talk to Richie. “A word, Richards?” 

Richie nods his excuses at the guys at the players’ table and follows John to the hallway. His brow is furrowed and his mouth pressed into an irritated line. He folds his arms across his chest. “I’ve put up points in the last _three_ games. I _am_ trying _– ”_

__

John cuts him off. “He’s in the Silver  & Blue.” He expects Richie to be pleased. Richie has always exuded a sense of proprietary ownership over all his teammates, and none more so than Carter. Even if he can’t control where Carter is, this information should at least satiate what Richie seems to view as his _right to know_. 

So John is not prepared when instead Richie sags against the wall, takes two slow deep breaths, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to keep up his composure. 

After a moment, Richie opens his eyes. _“Columbus?_ He can’t be in Columbus. I heard from – ” He stops talking abruptly, mouth shutting with a click. 

“He’s on IR,” John continues as if Richie hadn’t said anything – after all, it’s an important part of the game that John can plead ignorance about the players’ network. “As of a week ago he hadn’t even skated with the team.” 

Richie’s gone pale. “Why is he on IR?” 

“Well oddly, Richie” – John lets a note of sarcasm creep into his voice – “that’s not really the sort of information teams like to hand out.” 

“But you found out he was _on_ IR.” Richie’s tone is oddly plaintive, his face raw and worried, and John suddenly flashes back to the memory of walking down the row of cots in the Phantoms compound, the breath of sleeping players blooming out white and visible in the cold air, and Richie and Carter squeezed into one cot, curled up against each other, not enough space for a sheet of paper between them. 

Richie is still watching him. “That’s all I know,” John tells him. 

Richie blinks, and John can _see_ the wheels spinning in his head. “When do we – ” 

“December. Not till December.” 

Richie nods absently. He’s already far away, clearly just waiting for John to release him so he can beeline for his phone. “Can I go?” 

“Yeah, Richie.” Internally, John rolls his eyes. “You can go.” 

Richie makes it halfway down the hall before he stops and turns back. He runs his hand through his hair, an awkward, self-conscious gesture. “Um. Thanks, Coach. John.” He’s looking at John like he doesn’t quite know what to make of him. 

John knows the feeling. “Just _play_ , alright Richie?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, Coach.” He gives John a crooked half-smile, and then he’s gone. 

 

 

 

 

They win against the Gold, drop a nasty game to the Red & White, then eke out a few more wins. They’re tight games. They’d be dropping more if it weren’t for Quick in net. John’s got the game tape in front of him, the battle of attrition that was their most recent game against the Teal playing out before him, but he’s not really paying attention. 

J.J. turns eighteen today. Old enough to be given his Work Assignment. Old enough to pulled out of the house and sent – 

Anywhere. 

First Maggie, now J.J. And now it’ll be just Anna and Justin left in the house. John slides his tablet aside and tugs a photo free from its hiding place in the stacks of paper. His family’s faces stare back at him, and it’s old, but it was the only one he had with him when they forced him out. 

They didn’t exactly give him a lot of time to pack. 

In it, Maggie has her arms thrown wide in a dramatic pose, because even then everything she did, she did to the utmost, to the fullest. J.J.’s goofy, gap-tooth smile. Justin, still a baby, still in his mother’s arms, and Anna. _Anna._

_Dear Anna, Do we still wish our children ‘happy birthday’ in this day and age? Do you sing to them? Do you still bake for them, or have they cast off all those trappings as kid-things they’re too old for now? If I’m still allowed, please tell J.J. happy birthday. Tell him –_

__

John stops himself. It’s a pointless fucking exercise in self-torture, writing letters he’ll never get to send. And what good is it wishing his son a happy 18 th birthday, when he’s missed the entirety of his seventeenth year? Gray spots are starting to float across John’s right field of vision, a pounding in his right temple – as sure a sign of exhaustion as any. 

“You look frustrated, John. Is this a bad time?” 

John glances up, startled. Dean Lombardi is quieter on his feet than any grown man has a right to be. “No.” He waves him in, sliding the letter into a stack of other papers. “Please.” 

Lombardi undoes the button on his suit jacket and sits down, absently pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I hope it’s not the game that’s got you so wound up. It was a win after all.” 

John regards him steadily. “Today is my son’s birthday.” He can’t help but let a hint of accusation slip into his tone. 

“Ah.” Lombardi steeples his fingers together. “You know I’m doing everything in my power to rectify that situation, right?” 

John knows that Lombardi _says_ he’s doing everything in his power to bring John’s family here – to get clearance for them to leave the Orange. What he actually is doing, is an entirely different question. Dean Lombardi has plans. Plans within plans, most likely, and he is well aware that keeping John motivated, keeping him _hungry_ , will make those plans easier. 

John would like to believe in a world where his wife and his fucking _children_ aren’t dangled in front of him like a carrot. But John is not that fucking naïve. “How are… things?” 

Lombardi’s eyes actually light up. He presses his hands together. “Exceptionally well. Brown and Quick have been most helpful, lately.” And he _could_ be talking about their gameplay, but somehow John thinks it has more to do with how he’s seen Brown in and out of the administrative wing at odd hours recently, the dark circles under his eyes. And who the hell knows what he has Quick up to. 

Lombardi’s smiling warmly, but John knows better than to think that means anything. He, just like Brown, just like Quick, is just another cog in Lombardi’s machine. John treads a careful line, between knowing and not-knowing, between wanting to know and being afraid of it. Because although he’s never come out and said it, from what Lombardi’s implied, from what he’s oh-so-carefully let slip, John is pretty sure The Plan that’s lighting up those eyes – what Lombardi’s working towards – is no less than pulling down the entire League. The entire Union. 

And if that’s the goal, John’s willing to tread some murky water to get there. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Almost every day, Nash comes for him. Sometimes early. Sometimes late. And every day Jeff still freezes on the threshold to the trainer’s room, and it takes Nash _looking_ at him, and saying, “Come _on_ , Carter,” before he can make himself move forward, get the daily injection that numbs his foot long enough to let him skate. 

Besides the trainer, Nash is the only person Jeff sees, the only person Jeff talks to. And whether it’s because it’s the only human interaction he gets, or whether it’s because those couple hours they spend together are the only time his foot is blissfully, miraculously pain-free, Jeff starts to meet his visits with a sense of desperate, Pavlovian gratitude. 

Nash may be the only person that talks to him, but he makes up for it by talking a lot. Off the ice, Nash talks about how they lost their home opener against the Green, about Coach Arniel’s plans for increasing their offense, about how Columbus is actually really pretty this time of year. And Jeff has to laugh at that last one, because it’s not like he’s ever been allowed outside _._ When Jeff’s on the ice, Nash will say things like, “Your crossovers are still uneven,” or “Hustle, Carter – this isn’t bantam!” 

It’s so, so _normal_. 

And there is some solace in a clean sheet of ice, even if he’s not as graceful on it as he once was. Jeff can skate laps, nothing more on his mind than making each stride better than the last. But even with the ice stretching out bright and empty, he can hear the echo of crowds. He can hear screaming, and he catches flickers of movement, shadows of phantom players, out of the corner of his eye. Some days they’re so vivid even Nash will frown and glance over, trying to see what Jeff is looking at. 

On the days Nash doesn’t come, Jeff paces restless, shuffling laps around his cell. Stares at the ceiling and runs over the drills they would have done in his head. Repeats back the conversations they had. 

“Who’s going to play on my left?” he asks the ceiling. Jeff struggles to remember some of the names Nash has tossed out, off-hand. “Byers, maybe. Or Prospal,” Jeff answers himself, and in his head it’s in Nash’s voice. “Better in the corners,” he says, after a beat. “Yes. Like that.” 

 

 

 

 

Nash doesn’t come for him for a week. 

By the end of it, Jeff has stopped thinking about anything at all. Instead, he watches the door. Eyes glued to the light spilling in from the crack underneath, looking for any sign of the shifting shadows that signal a presence outside. 

“Hell of a fucking road trip,” Nash says when he comes back. “You ready?” 

Jeff is nearly sick with relief. A heady thrill of elation, and not even the recognition of how pathetic that is can stop him from keeping his eyes glued to Nash, standing too close as they walk down to the rink. Nash glances over at him, but Jeff’s not sure what to say. 

The pleasant hit he gets when the drugs numb his foot for the first time in a week just make it worse. When they’re dressing, Jeff reaches out and catches the hem of Nash’s sleeve, rubs the fabric between his fingers. And, it’s like he can see his hand, and he _knows_ it’s ridiculous, but he literally cannot stop himself. 

Nash breaks off midsentence. He looks carefully down at Jeff’s hand and then at Jeff, confusion and a dawning concern on his face. 

It takes all of Jeff’s self-control to bring his hand back, to keep it quietly clasped in his lap. They sit in silence for a minute after that. And all Jeff can think is that if Nash leaves _again –_

“I’ll play,” he tells Nash quietly. 

“Okay.” Nash nods, almost to himself, forehead still lined with concern. “Let’s do more passing drills today.” 

 

 

 

 

Agreeing to play is apparently the trick to getting to move out of his cell in the hospital wing. Nash introduces him to his new room in players’ quarters. In the _import_ section of players’ quarters. The rooms have no doors, just curtains to pull across the doorway. 

“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall,” Nash says. 

Jeff nods. There a packet of toiletries on the bed. A stack of shrink-wrapped blue t-shirts all labeled “#7”. He brushes his fingers across one of them. 

“You, uh, okay with being number Seven?” 

“Yeah,” Jeff says absently. “That’s fine.” His foot hurts. He wants to sit down. 

 

 

 

 

Jeff practices with the team for the first time on a Friday. He enters the locker room, sliding between guys, heading straight for his stall, and there’s a delayed wave of silence that spreads from his position outwards as the team notices he’s there. 

Jeff keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. 

Nash clears his throat. “Guys, this is Carter – number Seven. Carter, the Silver & Blue.” 

They’re staring. 

And then, “Holy _shit_ , Carts. You’re _here?”_ It’s Umberger. He looks very much the same as when he was traded off the Orange, and he pushes his way past a couple of his teammates to stand in front of Jeff, looking at Jeff with huge eyes. 

There’s an awkward moment of silence, before Jeff gathers himself to answer. “Hey ‘Berger.” 

Umberger just shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “How – when did you get here?” 

Jeff glances over at Nash, who’s watching him with a cool, steady gaze. “This summer,” Jeff answers. 

Umberger frowns, and next to him Nash pushes his hair back awkwardly and offers, “He’s been on IR.” 

Umberger’s glancing between the two of them now. Jeff shrugs. “I hurt my foot.” The words stick, dry, in his throat. 

Nash looks away. Umberger still looks befuddled. “Well. Welcome to the S’n’B, I guess.” Slowly, the conversations around him resume. 

That evening, Umberger finds him in his room. Jeff is sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to talk himself into not barricading the doorway. 

But he can’t stop thinking that maybe they’ll grab him in the night and he’ll wake up back in a cell, stripped and alone again. Maybe he hallucinated today. Maybe he’s still there, still in the hospital wing. Jeff swallows. No one is going to grab him, he tells himself. The clothes they gave him will still be there in the morning _._ Jeff touches the sheets on the bed carefully, the shelves on the wall. Real. Solid. There. 

Umberger raps sharply on the doorframe. Jeff jumps and it takes him a moment to remember that he’s supposed to invite him inside. “Come in,” he calls. 

Umberger enters frowning. “Why the fuck do they have you staying down here with the imports?” 

Jeff reaches up and pulls the collar of his shirt down to show off his tattoo. 

“Holy _shit_.” Umberger goes pale and has to make a visible effort to look away. “Well – hey – why don’t you come upstairs to my room, where we can _talk_.” He looks significantly at Jeff. 

Umberger’s room upstairs looks much more like what Jeff remembers from the Orange – small, but with a door that shuts, and its own bathroom. Umberger pulls a bottle down from a shelf in his closet and pours out two shots. He slides one towards Jeff. “You look like you could use this.” 

Jeff nods his thanks. 

Umberger tips his back. “So. You’ve seriously been here the whole time?” He shakes his head in amazement. “Richie’s been going _crazy_ looking for you.” 

It’s like being picked up and dropped. Like slamming into a wall. Jeff motions at the bottle. “You mind?” 

“No, man, go ahead.” 

Jeff’s hands are shaking a little; he has to steady himself to pour the shot. “So, you have a phone?” His mind is chattering, _keep it together, keep it together, keep it together._

Wordlessly, Umberger digs it out of his desk. He holds it up so Jeff can see. “Richie said he heard you were here, but I said I hadn’t seen you.” He shrugs. “And I _hadn’t_. Nobody knew you were here.” 

Jeff nods. He’s drawing careful breaths in through his nose. “Nash knew. And Howson. Coach, I think.” As calmly as he can, he gestures at the phone. “’Berger, can I – ” 

“What? Oh. Right.” Umberger grins uncertainly and pulls up what is presumably Mike’s number for him. 

When he hands it over, the cursor is blinking in a blank box. Jeff stares at it, suddenly unsure what to say. He’s acutely conscious of Umberger carefully not looking at him. _Hey_ , he finally types out, _i’m in the S &B. i'm playing tomorrow – carts_

__

He hands the phone back to Umberger, forces out a “Thanks.” The tightness in his throat makes it come out rough sounding. 

“Sure.” There’s a pause. Umberger sets the phone on the desk awkwardly. “Carts – what happened?” 

Jeff swallows around the lump in his throat. 

“We got word out of Philly that you’d _both_ disappeared, and there were all kinds of crazy rumors. They were saying you _killed_ Richie.” He shakes his head. “Then Richie turned up on the Black, but you didn’t show up anywhere. And there were – other rumors.” Umberger trails off. He’s staring at the spot on Jeff’s chest, where his tattoo lies hidden by his shirt. “They said you’d been arrested.” He pauses again. “They said you _raped_ somebody.” 

“You believe that?” Jeff asks. 

Umberger finally meets his eyes. “I don’t know what to believe. I’m having a hard time coming up with a reason why the Orange would trade both of you. Or why you would have – _that._ ” 

The silence stretches out. Jeff shifts uncomfortably. “I didn’t kill anybody. I didn’t _rape_ anybody,” he says finally. “I just got traded.” 

Umberger’s frowning, skepticism clear on his face. “You should go,” he says slowly. “We have a game tomorrow.” 

The imports have their own common area, and a group of them are gathered there when he makes his way back downstairs. Their conversation pauses, and one of them calls out as he passes, “Ty govorish po-russki?” 

Jeff freezes. The man who spoke to him smiles. “Nyet, eh?” Then he says something else and the guys he’s sitting with laugh. Jeff slinks back to his room. 

 

 

 

 

They play miserable, shitty hockey against the Blue & Gray. There are a couple moments where Jeff feels like things are clicking. He gets a couple of nice shots on net. Columbus has at least one rookie that’s showing some real promise – Johansen – both of the Silver & Blue’s goals that night are his. 

But mostly it’s missed passes and sloppy puck handling. They bunch up in the corners, fail to slow the Blue & Gray through the neutral zone, and really – Nash is the only one who looks upset by any of it. 

They only win because the Blue & Gray is somehow _worse._

__

Afterward, the room seems awfully cheerful about a 2-1 win that came down to lucky bounces. Nash pauses in front of him. “Cheer up, Carter. We won.” 

“You happy with that win?” He asks. 

Nash gets a sour expression. “Well, let’s just say that improves our record to 3 and 8. So, yeah, I’m happy with the win.” 

_3 and 8. Jesus._

__

Sitting back, Jeff taps Johansen on the shoulder. “Good game, kid. Nice work.” 

Johansen blinks at him. “Thanks,” he says after a second, but coldly, and he turns away. 

Jeff nods to himself and gets up. Most of the team is pointedly ignoring him, although a few are glaring at him suspiciously. How many of these guys, he wonders, believe he killed someone. _Raped_ someone. 

_That’s easy,_ a voice in Jeff’s head whispers, _all of them._

__

After he’s dressed, he’s sort of at a loss of what to do. This is part when Mike grabs him, and they head upstairs. Or when his teammates demand he join them for ridiculous toasts and worse movies. 

But Mike isn’t here. And this isn’t the Orange. 

Umberger intercepts him in the hallway. After glancing around, he says, “Come back to my room for a second, okay?” 

When they get there, Umberger shuts the door. “Richie’s been blowing up my phone.” He tosses it at Jeff. “Here.” 

Jeff scrolls through the messages. 

_jesus christ. jeff. are you okay?_

__

_why were you on IR?_

__

_i've been looking for you._

__

_i couldn’t find you anywhere._

__

_i'm on the black. i couldn’t stay. i just couldn’t._

__

_Berger, you have to help carts get a phone._

__

_Please._

__

_we play tomorrow too. the R &G. _

__

When he gets to the last one, Jeff types, _we won. i could’ve played better. i miss –_ he starts to write, _i miss playing with you,_ but he can’t. Not on Umberger’s phone. He deletes the last, just sends the first two sentences. 

Before he can hand the phone back it buzzes again. The message just reads, _jeff_. 

It’s like being stabbed. And he can’t. Not here _._ Jeff shuts the app down. Gives the phone back with shaky hands. “Thanks.” 

Umberger shrugs. He looks uncomfortable. He digs another phone out of his desk and passes it over to Jeff. “Here. It doesn’t have a chip.” He pauses and looks up at Jeff. “You’ll have to find one of those on your own. I don’t want… I don’t want to be in the middle of this.” 

“Sure. Yeah.” Jeff stands up to leave. “Thanks, though – ‘Berger.” 

Umberger looks away. 

 

 

 

 

The imports take most of their meals in a communal kitchen. They’re all served from the same, large pot – which Jeff finds comforting. Like whatever he’s about to eat probably isn’t poisoned. Still, he hesitates in the doorway; it feels strange to be around so many people. 

“Dlya tebya.” There’s a kid with huge, dark eyes holding a bowl out to him. The Silver & Blue’s tiny rookie D-man. 

Jeff takes it. “Thank you.” The kid’s PerTs are hanging around his neck, the tags edged in black. Just like Jeff’s. Just like everyone in here. He’s watching Jeff with a wary curiosity. Jeff holds his gaze. 

Abruptly, the kid shrugs and turns to the next guy in line. The rest of the room is keeping one eye on him, and when Jeff moves on, it’s like they let out a collective breath. Their wariness prickles over Jeff’s skin. After his isolation, their combined gaze is overwhelming. The kitchen feels crowded, too warm. Jeff retreats back to his room. 

He does make small forays out, though, when the walls of his room seem to press in tight and claustrophobic. Jeff has commandeered a corner of the import’s lounge, where he can stretch out and elevate his foot after games, and mostly they leave him alone. He’s using one of the chairs to prop his foot up, debating whether or not it’s worth it to get up to go get some ice. He starts hard when the Russian rookie drops down next to him. 

The rookie shoots him a look. “Pizdetz. Govno. Suka. Shaybu. Katityes,” he says. “That’s all the words you really need to know.” 

Nearby, Prospal snorts. 

The rookie ignores him. “Eybozhenko,” he says, gesturing at himself. He grins in response to Jeff’s uncertain expression. “Or Bozh. Bozh is okay, too.” 

“Bozh,” Jeff repeats. Bozh is looking at him expectantly. “Carts,” Jeff finally offers. 

Bozh nods, sitting next to him in a companionable silence, apparently content with Jeff’s lack of further input. It’s a minute before Jeff can work up the nerve to ask, “What do they mean?” 

Bozh gives him a sly look and ticks them off on his fingers. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Puck. Skate.” 

Jeff mouth twitches, just a little. “Pizdesh?” 

“Piz- _detz_ ,” Bozh corrects, grinning openly now. And he sits with Jeff, keeping him company, until it gets late. 

 

 

 

 

Light coming in from the hallway wakes him, and he’s just conscious enough to register _movement_ before he’s being held down, pinned to the bed. The adrenaline hits like a wave, a metallic bitter taste in his mouth. There’s something – a pillow – over his face, and he can’t see, can’t _move –_

Someone hisses next to his head, “We heard what you did in the Orange. And we’re not going to tolerate that shit here. _Got it?_ ” 

And, he didn’t – he didn’t do what they think he did. He wants to tell them, but when he opens his mouth and tries to speak, the cotton fabric suctions up against his mouth and nose, and there’s no _air_. Sparks are going off behind his eyes; his mind spins, dizzy, and he didn’t. _He didn’t_. But everyone thinks he did, and maybe that’s just as bad. 

_Maybe they’re going to kill me,_ Jeff thinks. _I’d kill me._

Abruptly there’s yelling, fierce and angry, in Russian. The hands on him release and Jeff curls, rolls away from the shouting. He squeezes his eyes shut, sucking in long gasps of air. And he keeps them shut, because it had to be guys on the Silver  & Blue, guys on his _team_ , holding him down – and he _doesn’t want to know._

“What the _fuck_ is going on here?” Even with his eyes shut, he recognizes Nash’s voice. 

Clearly it’s a party, here in his room. 

“Everybody get the fuck out!” Nash yells. 

When the sound of footsteps fades, someone else starts speaking angrily in Russian before switching to English. “What they do down here? They not supposed even to _be_ here.” 

“Vinny – ” Nash starts. 

“This area for _my_ people. You say you keep them out.” 

“I know what I said, okay? And I’m trying to find out what the fuck is going on.” 

Vinny spits something back in sharp-sounding Russian, but subsides and leaves. 

Nash sighs. “Carter?” 

Jeff slits his eyes open. Nash is standing next to the bed. He reaches out like he’s going to shake Jeff. “Don’t touch me,” Jeff rasps. 

Nash’s hand freezes, midair. “Are you alright?” 

_Is he alright?_ He repeats the question back to himself, and there’s a note of hysteria in his inner voice. _No, no he is not alright –_ his lungs are still burning; he is widely believed to be a _rapist._ And he might be _crazy._ He’s quiet too long, and Nash asks again, “Carter?” 

But there aren’t any – there are no words – no way to explain. Jeff’s just trying to hide his face, to muffle the gasping noises he’s making. 

“Carter?” He can feel Nash’s hand where it sets down, very softly on his shoulder. 

“Don’t,” he manages, and curls away. 

 

 

 

 

The locker room becomes a strange place for Jeff – crowded but no one touches him, noisy but no one speaks to him. Outside of the imports, the team treats him like he’s invisible, like he isn’t there. And reality starts to flicker in and out, like maybe he _isn’t_ here, or like there are two Columbus locker rooms, in separate planes, laid one on top of the other in space, Jeff in one and everyone else in the other. 

Or maybe there are two _Jeff Carters_ – and their Jeff Carter _is_ a criminal, _is_ a horrible person. Which explains why when they do interact with him, it’s with barely concealed disgust. 

In scrimmages, it gets particularly bad. Jeff still has a hard time planting his right skate – it leaves his whole right side weak, vulnerable. And nobody knows it better than his teammates. The third time he gets boarded, he’s slow to get up. It hurts. 

There was a time, Jeff remembers distantly, that this was _fun_. And there’s something tightening up in his chest, vicious and bitter, cold and angry _._

__

The next guy that comes at him – Jeff spins – and even though it’s just practice, even though they’re not supposed to – he lights up his stick and _swipes._

Clitsome ducks and twists away, just missing the blade of Jeff’s knife. “You fucking psycho! Are you trying to kill me?” He shoves at Jeff. 

_Maybe_ , thinks Jeff, taking just a second longer than he needs to deactivate his stick. 

“Hey, hey _hey!”_ Arniel’s assistant calls. “Save it for games!” 

Jeff smiles and shows his teeth. 

 

 

 

 

Jeff needs to get out of here. 

He has these brief moments of total clarity – where he knows the looks his teammates give him are unjustified. That he didn’t _do_ any of things they said he did. That he _isn’t_ crazy. That this person who goes for blood with opponents and teammates alike, that the rookies are _afraid_ of – it isn’t him. 

Those moments are becoming fewer and farther between. 

It’s easier in games – where he’s supposedto be angry, supposedto be violent. Jeff slaps the ice, coming up alongside Prospal. “Shaybu! Shaybu!” Prospal slides him the puck quick and clean. On the ice, his head clears, and suddenly people can hear him. People can see him. It helps that he’s mostly out with Nash, who treats him with an evenhanded professionalism, and Prospal – who’s an import. 

The imports seem less inclined to hate him. If anything, the antipathy the rest of the Silver & Blue makes them draw their mantle further over him. 

But in games it doesn’t matter what he has or hasn’t done, it just matters what he can do with the puck. Jeff bolts up ice – carrying it through the neutral zone and across the blue line. He’s left most of his line behind, and it’s just him and the Blue & Black D-man. Jeff stares him down and thinks, _I played in the Stanley Cup Final. I played on the_ Orange _and I led my team in scoring. You really think you and your broke-down little team in this backwater division are going to stop me?_

__

And maybe that’s a little unfair, but it doesn’t stop it from being _true_. He wheels just north of the circle and looks right, like he’s going to pass to Nash – 

And then wrists it between the D’s legs. The puck flies over the netminder’s left shoulder and sails into the top corner. 

_Fuck, yes._

Jeff puts another one in on the power play in the second. The Silver  & Blue takes the game 4-1. They’re a miserable team, but they have their moments. 

 

 

 

 

The win makes him feel lighter. Like he can breathe easier. He feels _normal._ Bozh even offers him a tiny smile on his way out the door. __

“Seven?” 

Jeff’s good mood abruptly evaporates. One of the assistant coaches is gesturing him towards a small side room. 

There are two aides in the room. Jeff’s heartbeat picks up. 

“Put your things on the table.” 

When he complies, one of the aides starts carefully and methodically going through it. Jeff frowns. “What are you looking for? What is this?” 

No one answers him. 

They search _him_ next. They snap on gloves so they don’t have to touch his skin and run their fingers through his hair. One of the aides gives him a sharp warning look before sticking his fingers into Jeff’s mouth. Jeff closes his eyes, shuts it out, and sends his mind elsewhere. No gray ceilings or fluorescent lights. No constant, lingering smell of sweat. A house, a yard – like the one his parents had, before. It would be on a quiet street, lined with elms. 

He can feel their fingers on him, pushing in on the edges of his thoughts. Jeff refocuses. A sun-drenched bedroom. Julia’s dark eyes and quick laugh, and Jeff can almost feel the sun on his skin. 

Her hair as he pushes it back off her face. 

Afterwards, Jeff tries to spit the taste of latex out his mouth, ignores the way his skin is crawling. 

No one ever says anything about _why_. 

When he makes it back to his room, he finds it tossed. Clothes pulled out of drawers. Bed unmade and mattress standing against the wall. He doesn’t have many things, but what he does own is strewn across the floor. 

The phone Umberger gave him is gone. 

Jeff gets a rush of bile that he swallows back. 

Behind him, someone clears his throat. It’s Eybozhenko again. He glances around with an expression that is commiserative but unsurprised, gestures awkwardly at the mess. “Sorry.” 

Jeff scowls and tugs his mattress back into place. “Do they – is this normal?” 

Eybozhenko shrugs. “Yes. For us.” He taps his chest, right over his tattoo; then he hesitates, frowning. For a moment, Jeff thinks he’s going to say something else, but in the end, he just shrugs. “Solidarnost, brat.” 

 

 

 

 

Jeff’s been listening long enough that he can pick out at least two different languages they’re speaking. It takes him a while to work up the nerve to ask Bozh about it. 

Bozh laughs. “One is old Russian, real Russian. One is,” he shrugs. “Made up? Mix? Some Russian words. Some Swedish. French, I think, maybe.” 

They’re sitting in the visiting locker room, waiting to go on. Jeff studies the carpet, and it could be any locker room anywhere. No one tells the imports where they’re going beforehand; they’re all just herded onto the bus. And now they sit crammed shoulder to shoulder at their end of the locker room, but Jeff doesn’t mind. They don’t talk much, but Jeff gets the feeling they’re pretty much all as pissed off as he is. And Bozh, Bozh might be alright. 

On his other side, Vinny Prospal is staring vacantly at the wall. Prospal had cheerfully admitted to Jeff in broken English that he does not give a fuck whether Jeff lives or dies. As long as he doesn’t fuck with Prospal’s stats. 

But he isn’t allowed to die in the Silver & Blue’s import quarters. Because Prospal runs that place with military precision. 

Prospal’s vacant look is just another reminder that these days, the games are all starting to blend together. Jeff has to look at the color of the walls to remind himself where he is, and, _oh right. Fuck._ “The Gold  & White,” he mutters. Jeff is not looking forward to how sore he’s going to be after this game. 

Next to him, Prospal leans over and spits. 

 

 

 

 

Jeff’s first shift, he gets put into the boards. He’s up fast, stick out, and _fuck you, Nashville._

Up the ice, Prospal circles the net, Nash is at the point, and Jeff sprints to the post. Prospal backhands it towards him, just before getting taken down, and Jeff snaps it fast into the net. 

The Gold  & White’s winger – McGrattan – comes at him again later in the period, gets him down on the ice, and Jeff can feel the butt of the stick pressing into the Kevlar of his gear. McGrattan’s trying to engage the knife, but he’s too close. Jeff pulls him in, claws at his face. 

McGrattan growls and he abandons his stick to slide his hand up to Jeff’s throat, and he _presses –_

__

Jeff kicks out wildly, twists away. He’s gasping for air, but it’s not even worth it to look for a ref, because, fuck, this is what hockey _is_ now, he thinks. No skill, no beauty, just them clawing at each other on the ice. 

The crowd is going wild. 

Later, Jeff puts another in, fueled by pure, unadulterated _spite._

When McGrattan skates by the bench, Jeff bares his teeth, but the Gold  & White player just smiles. And then he goes after Bozh. 

He has almost a foot on Bozh, and at least fifty pounds. Bozh doesn’t stand a chance. 

He goes down hard. He’s still after, splayed out on the ice. 

_Fuck this stupid fucking game_. 

 

 

 

 

Bozh disappears from the lineup. Jeff reminds himself that he doesn’t care. Bozh wasn’t _his_ rookie. Bozh wasn’t his friend. Jeff doesn’t have _friends_. 

None of it helps. His anger has long since stopped being hot– now it’s just a steady chill under his skin. Ice in his veins; cold right down to his core. Jeff hates this place. Jeff hates this _game_. Jeff hates this team and everyone who put him on it. 

But right now, the assistant coach, the one who’s searching his bag again, just because he can? The one who’s fucking with Jeff, just because he can? Jeff hates him most of all. 

Jeff glares while he throws Jeff’s stuff all over the locker room floor. At one point, the assistant coach looks up and laughs. “You look pissed off, Seven. What’s the matter, you sad Five got sent down? Was he your little _friend?”_

Jeff stands up, takes a step towards him. 

He laughs again. “Try it, boy. See how well it turns out for you.” 

Jeff manages to get a couple punches in, before they drag him down. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s been a decent two weeks for the Black – they’ve only dropped two of the last seven, and this game starts lucky for them – Brown’s shot deflects off one of the Red & Navy players and goes in. 

But that’s about the last thing that goes well. 

In response, the Red & Navy ups the tempo – starts driving to the net, and pretty soon they’re outshooting the Black two to one. Murray keeps saying, “Stay focused, follow the game plan, tight shifts, tight hockey.” John watches player after player nod solemnly in return, leap the boards, and immediately throw that out the window, hacking and slashing, utterly distracted by the Red & Navy’s chirping. 

Being on this side of the bench has never been more frustrating. It’s not like John hasn’t been there, but it’s still enough to make him want to throttle someone. Especially when Doughty takes a stupid, unnecessary tripping penalty. And when, minutes later, Richards gets called for hooking. Well, John thinks, good thing we drilled the PK in practice today. 

Then Mitchell gets driven into the corner and comes hobbling off the ice. 

Today is not John’s day. 

During the first break, it becomes clear Mitchell’s done for the night, and John has to rapidly recalculate his kill. “Scuderi, you’re down low on the first unit till I say otherwise. Greener, you’re on second. Doughty, be ready to change on the fly – something tells me we’re going to be killing off a lot of minutes tonight.” 

“How’s Mitchie?” Greene asks. 

“Mitchell’s going to be fine.” John has no idea how Mitchell is, but lesson number one of coaching is that honesty is not always the best policy. “Focus.” Coach Murray is handling the offense, but John does spare a glance at Richie. “And Richards – ” 

“I know, I know.” Richie winces. “Sorry,” he apologizes to the room at large. “It was a stupid fucking penalty. But listen guys, we gotta stop letting them get to us, we’ve got to get more shots – heads up, okay?” 

John smiles, because Richie’s eyes are focused, intent, and he’s looking very much like the kid John made Captain. 

In the second, Brown gets a legit goal to put them up 2-0, but from there things get rougher. Bergenheim _(2002 Draft, White & Orange to the Black & Blue, to the Red & Navy; sub-20 goal scorer, good on the forecheck)_, slams into Richie – who gets spun around and ricochets off another player. He doesn’t go down, but John watches him take one slow, staggering step before Richie manages to look back up, regain his balance. 

And then he goes after Bergenheim. 

“Goddammit, Richards!” Murray is screaming for a change, but Richie’s ignoring him. There’s a lot less stick use in the Western Conference, but Richie has his up, knife out, and he crosschecks Bergenheim – ignores the whistle that draws – and slashes at him again. He gets grabbed and held by one of Bergenheim’s line mates and then, naturally, Stoll is in the mix. 

The bench is on its feet. 

John is pissed, because what the hell happened to _not letting them get to us?_ Richards _and_ Stoll end up in the box. John is grinding his jaw, watching the PK unit, at work _again,_ clearing the puck steadily, thank god, when Bernier – their backup goalie – says, “Coach,” and points across the ice at the penalty box. 

Stoll is banging on the glass trying to draw John’s attention, and when he has it, he gestures at Richie. 

Richie is bent forward at the waist, face white and still panting. “Hang on,” John says, and motions at the clock – the last twenty seconds of the period are winding down. 

By the time the horn sounds, Richie is vomiting. He’s shaky on his way down the tunnel, and John gets the verdict soon after. 

“Richards failed his quiet room tests.” The trainer looks apologetic. 

John squeezes the bridge of his nose. Not as if he didn’t see that coming. “How bad?” 

Robinson shrugs. “Pretty bad. His balance is shot. No idea what the score is, and he keeps calling me Pete. Who the hell is Pete?” 

John squeezes harder, trying to stave off his own headache. “Pete is the Orange’s head trainer.” He sighs. “Thanks, Rob.” 

In the third, the Red & Navy manage one. But after that, Quick shuts it down. It’s a win. A very expensive win. 

 

 

 

 

They lose the next one. And the one after that. And the one after _that._

 

 

 

 

John wakes up with a headache. When he opens his eyes, there is a gray haze floating across his field of vision. _Thank you, puck to the orbital bone, circa 1999._ He blinks rapidly, trying to clear it. Glancing at the clock, he thinks seriously about closing his eyes again. Today is a practice day. Tomorrow they host the Green, then they’re on the road. Watch hockey. Coach practice. Coach games. Sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat. Somehow this is so much less fulfilling when the team’s losing. 

If Anna were here, she would be up already. She was always better at mornings than he was. He brings up his family’s faces, holding them in his mind one at a time. Anna. Maggie. JJ. Justin, before summoning the motivation to rise.He sits up, sending the tablet he fell asleep working on crashing to the floor. He rescues it, along with a page of increasingly incoherent notes about the Green’s goaltending situation. Reading over them, he has the profoundly depressing thought that _this_ is what he traded his family for. __

Murray’s running practice today, and John’s not meeting with the D until this afternoon, but he watches from the elevated observation lounge anyway. Neither Richards nor Mitchell are skating, both still out for the foreseeable future. Just as the points race is picking up. John grits his teeth. 

Lombardi slips into the room behind him and steps up to join him at the glass. He acknowledges John’s frown with a raised eyebrow. “John?” 

John is not in the mood to pussyfoot around. “What?” 

“Oh, a little fire today. I like that.” He has that mock-serious tone that John’s still not certain how to read. 

He reigns himself in. “Sorry. I don’t like losing.” 

Lombardi just smiles, like he’s _amused_ by the trials of the mere mortals he surrounds himself with. “That’s what I like about you, John. Even in the midst of all this, you’re still so focused on winning games.” 

John looks over at him sharply. “Last I heard, winning games was pretty integral to your plan.” 

Lombardi’s shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “True enough. But you have to keep an eye on the big picture.” 

“Trust me.” There’s still some heat in John’s voice he can’t help. “I _am_ thinking about the big picture.” 

Lombardi watches him, something cold and calculating behind his eyes. “So what is it, John? Tell me what ails us.” 

Down on the ice they’re drilling two-on-ones. A shot rings off the post. John sighs. “Talent’s there, mostly – although either someone needs to step their game up, or we need to bring in scoring help. But the team’s not – ” John’s thinking about Penner, headphones in and locked in his own world, their clutch of rookies, wide-eyed and trying _,_ but scrambling in a million different directions. The veteran core of defensemen, more worried about protecting themselves from injury than winning games. And Brown and Quick, of course, walking around with much heavier burdens on their shoulders than hockey _._ John searches for the word. “Motivated. We’re unfocused. Pulling a lot of different directions.” 

Lombardi nods thoughtfully, face a frustratingly unreadable blank. 

John huffs out an irritated breath. “I know you have plans for this team. I know you’ve deliberately assembled a group of people with – ” his voice drops low “ – with reason to hate the Union. So why not tell us, tell _them_ , what they’re playing for?” John’s pushing up against the line here, and he knows it. 

But Lombardi’s face stays mild, composed. As if they weren’t discussing something that could get them both arrested. Executed. “Easy, John. Our team is almost _–_ but not quite there. Once all the pieces are in place, then everyone will know everything they need to.” His tone is light, but there’s something deadly serious in his gaze. 

John abruptly feels very small – like whatever this is, it’s much, much bigger than anything he imagined. Bigger than him or his family. Bigger than _Lombardi_ , maybe. Lombardi turns away to watch the guys down on the ice, and there’s something about his focus, the intensity of his observation. “You’re planning a trade,” John guesses. Murray has called the skaters in, and they gather around him, taking a knee. “You’ve got plans to ship someone. Who?” 

“Ah, John. Sometimes when you get old, you get tired. And not everyone wants to be a revolutionary.” Lombardi’s eyes are still on the ice below. “I haven’t got any trades lined up. But expect changes.” He claps John on the shoulder. “I’m going to be relying on you a great deal very soon. Don’t let me down.” 

John bites back an irritated noise. “What kind of changes? And when – ” 

“Patience, John.” There’s a hint of a smile playing around Lombardi’s mouth. “Rome wasn’t burned in a day.” 

 

 

 

 

They lose again the next night. 

Lombardi fires _Terry Murray_. John gets the news when he’s called into Lombardi’s office before their next game. 

“So, you’ll be coaching tonight, obviously.” Lombardi ignores his gobsmacked expression. “That’s not a problem, is it?” 

“No, but – ” John is still trying to get over the fact that Murray’s gone. “Are you surethis is the right choice?” He likes Murray. The team likes Murray. Everybody likes Murray. 

Lombardi drops his chin into his hand and studies John with solemn, gray eyes. “Terry Murray was an excellent coach for a hockey team. But we’re going to war.” 

John’s blood goes very cold. 

“The man I’m bringing in, I’m bringing in to lead us in a fight. But I still need us to win games.” He’s staring steadily at John. “And that’s where you come in. Do you understand?” 

John nods slowly. 

“Good.” Lombardi sits back. “He’s on his way, but he’s not here yet. I need you to hold down the fort for a few days, can you manage that?” 

That night there’s an extra edge of adrenaline that speeds John’s steps, that tightens his chest as he’s sending his guys over the boards. When he lays down to sleep, his heart is still thumping hard inside his chest. _Anna_ , he thinks. _Anna, Anna, Anna._

 

 

 

 

Naturally, John’s second game as head coach wouldbe against the Silver & Blue. Richie is sitting on the opposite side of John’s desk, regarding him very seriously. “I need to play in this game.” 

“Richie.” John is being as reasonable as he can be, given the circumstances. “You’re not playing. You are still concussed.” 

“I can play.” John can see him fighting to stay calm. To present his argument rationally. Richie holds up a hand to begin ticking off his points. “It’s been _two weeks._ My balance is fine – ” 

John flips the desk lamp around so it shines directly into Richie’s eyes. Richie winces dramatically and makes a small, pained noise. His hands go up to his temples. 

“The arena lights are a lot brighter than that,” John says dryly. 

Richie scowls at him, still rubbing his forehead. “I’d _manage._ ” 

John shakes his head. “You’re not playing.” 

Richie bites his lip. He squares his shoulders to John. “Just let me play one period. I won’t even hit anyone.” 

“Richie – ” 

“Coach – _Please.”_

__

There’s that edge in Richie’s voice again, the one that if John really listens to it, sounds less and less like a kid determined to get his way, and more and more frantic. There’s something there. Something that John’s not quite getting. “You can’t play,” John repeats. 

Richie swallows. He looks very much like John just punched him. 

“This is about seeing Carter, isn’t it? About getting a chance to talk to Carter?” 

Richie’s cheeks flush, but he looks up to meet John’s eyes. “Please.” 

_Anna,_ John thinks, _would like Richie._ He’s certain of it, although he’s not inclined to press on why _._ Richie is still looking at John, worried but steady. 

_Asshole,_ John calls him inside his head. _What makes you so convinced you’re so special? That you should get what you want, when_ no one _else does?_ John should tell him to get over himself. John should tell him to get out of his office and stop wasting his time. John sighs. “You’re not playing. But I’ll work something out, okay?” 

 

 

 

 

After the game – a win, although not by much, and John is already anticipating the work they’re going to have to do tomorrow to triage the power play – he knocks on the visiting team’s locker room door and one of Arniel’s assistants answers it. 

John holds up the cup. “Piss test.” 

The assistant rolls his eyes. “Whose number came up?” 

John makes a show of checking the paperwork in his hand. “Seven. Carter.” 

“Yo, Seven!” The assistant calls back into the room. “Get over here, you gotta pee in a cup.” 

John bristles. Carter’s still pulling his shirt on as he comes around the corner. He hesitates just a fraction of second when he sees John; then his eyes cut over to the assistant coach. 

“Go with him.” The assistant nods towards John. 

Carter follows him silently down the hallway. They round one corner, and then another, but it’s not until John stops in front of a doorway that is clearly not a bathroom that Carter asks in a low voice, “Coach?” 

John motions him to enter. 

Richie, having followed directions for once in his life, is waiting at the far end of the room. He stands up as they walk in. 

Carter stops dead. 

Richie takes one hesitant step forward, and then two. “Jeff,” he says, and then he’s _launching_ himself at Carter. He grabs him hard, face buried in Carter’s neck, hands balling in his shirt. 

And, _oh_ , John thinks. _This was a mistake._

Because Richie does not seem happy or pleased, vindicated or satisfied. Richie is not holding onto Carter like John brought his friend back for a visit – friend or _friend_ issue aside. Richie’s holding on like John has brought oxygen back into the room, something wild and desperate in his grip. And they’ve got five minutes – tops – before someone’s going to wonder where John and Carter are. And then John’s going to have to take Carter _away._

“I’m so sorry,” Richie is saying, over and over again. “Jeff, I’m sorry. I’m _so sorry.”_

Carter’s arms slowly come up to circle around Richie’s shoulders. “Shut up, Mike. Stop. _Shut up.”_

Richie’s litany cuts off midstream. In the sudden quiet, John can hear harsh, panicked breathing. 

There’s something heavy and tangled lacing the air, and the creeping, dawning, realization of what an intrusion his presence is prickles up the back of his neck. John _does not want_ to be here. Doesn’t want to witness this – or _any –_ heartfelt reunion. It’s too much – he doesn’t want to see it. Doesn’t want to hear it – John turns on his heel, takes up a post just outside doorway. Behind him, their voices – thank god – drop to indecipherable murmurs. 

He waits. He gives them as long as he can. Longer than he should. When he comes back in, Richie is trying to hand Carter something. “Take it,” he hisses. 

Carter pushes his hand back, still closed. “I can’t, Mike. _I can’t._ They search my room, they search my things, they search _me_ – ” 

“Carter – ” John starts. 

Carter glances over at him, but Richie ignores him completely. “I’ll come to you,” Richie’s staring up at Carter, eyes a little wild. “I’ll get traded. I’ll get them to send me to the Silver  & Blue – ” 

_“No.”_ Carter’s voice is vehement. “No. It’s not a good place.” 

Richie’s face crumbles at that. “Then I’ll – ” 

“We’ve got to go, Carter,” John interrupts. 

Carter takes a step back. 

_“Jeff – ”_ Richie’s not letting go. 

“I’ve got to go, Mike.” He says softly. He disentangles himself, takes another step back. 

On the walk back, Carter breathes with quick, deliberate intakes of air. John says, “Take care of yourself, Carter.” 

Carter looks at him. His face is blank, unreadable, but his eyes are dark. He nods. 

By the time John makes it back, Richie’s gone. 

 

 

 

 

When Lombardi tells him, John’s first thought is, _how the hell did he convince him to leave The Farm?_

“Darryl Sutter,” Lombardi repeats. “You look like you recognize the name?” 

“Well, yes. Of course.” John blinks. “How’d you convince him to take the job? How’d you even get him down here?” 

“Sutter has larger aspirations than his current position allows.” And, god, that’s classic Lombardi doubletalk. That could mean any of a half dozen different things. “And I called in some favors.” 

_Darryl Sutter, Jesus Christ._

__

 

 

 

 

Sutter turns out to be a frustratingly impenetrable figure. His instructions frequently consist of vague, mumbled directions, illustrated by sharp, expansive arm gestures. He has the irritating habit of watching practice in near silence, with hooded eyes, arms folded across his chest, looking like he’s giving it no more than a third of his attention. Then, at the end, he’ll bark out two or three pronouncements, pull John aside and mutter instructions for future line combinations and who he wants in the lineup. John can’t decide if he’s picking them at random or if he’s some sort of hockey genius. But the most irritating thing of all is – it’s working. They’re getting goals again and stacking up points – they scored four against the Blue & Green, _five_ in their last game against the Green. 

But watching him, there’s always something faraway in his gaze. John wonders if he’s thinking about The Farm. About his own family, far up north. 

Or maybe John’s projecting. Maybe it’s nothing like that at all. Maybe he’s thinking about short-handed goals. Or lunch. 

Brown likes him, though. And Quick. “The Farm’s a fucking _free state_ ,” Quick says. “That man and his family kicked the Union out.” Quickie gives them a look, clearly impressed. “You gotta respect that.” 

And even if _The Farm_ is basically an empty stretch of land on the edge of nothing, John supposes you do. “Yeah, but then what’s he doing down here?” John asks. 

Brown leans back against the goal posts and squints out at the ice. They’re watching the rest of the team run through drills. “Lombardi’s got to have something he wants.” 

Quick gives him a playful shove off the pipes and makes a show of wiping them clean. “Fucking _duh_ , Brownie. But what? Money? Protection from the Union? I mean Dean’s good, but he’s not fucking magic.” 

Brown just rolls his eyes and shrugs. 

Up near center ice, Richards casts them a curious glance. 

“How’s he doing?” John asks. In the weeks following the game against the Silver & Blue, Richie has been conspicuously absent from John’s life. Quiet to the point where even after Richie started playing with the team again, Brown had pulled John aside and said, “Holy shit, Coach, what did you _do_ to him?” 

Today, Brown just says, “Better. But, Jesus, between getting his bell rung and whatever you said to him after the game against the Silver & Blue – he was pretty messed up.” 

John shuffles uncomfortably. “Yeah?” 

“Ugh,” Brown emphasizes. “Yeah.” 

“He ever mention a guy named Jeff Carter?” 

Brown and Quick exchange a _look_. “Player to coach? Or, uh, unofficially?” Quick asks. 

“Unofficial.” 

Brown shakes his head sadly. “All the fucking time.” 

After practice, John walks into the locker room and the first thing he sees is Penner sprawled out in his stall. Penner’s face splits in a wide grin. “Someone’s making waves,” he singsongs at John. 

John pauses. Fraser and Nolan are sitting nearby and they both shoot irritated looks at Penner. Then they glance nervously at John. 

John has no idea what’s going on. 

Penner swallows his grin, looking cat-like, smug. Brown joins in the group glaring at him. “Coach Stevens,” he says. “Can I talk to you a minute?” 

John narrows his eyes at both of them. “Sure. I’ll be in my office.” 

Brown is still damp from the shower when he comes in, hair dripping and clothes sticking to him like he dressed in a hurry. He looks at John. 

“What?” John asks. 

Brown’s mouth twists. Wordlessly, he slides a phone across the desk to John. 

John’s eyebrows go up. Brown meets his gaze, then looks pointedly at the phone. 

The message on the screen reads, _I heard J Stevens can help. Please can anyone put me in touch?_

__

John sets it down quickly, like it’s hot to the touch. It’s a sentiment he hasn’t heard in a _long_ time. “Who did this go out to?” 

Brown shrugs. “As far as I can tell? Everyone.” 

“Well,” John says. Shit _._ “You recognize the number?” 

Brown shakes his head. 

“Has anyone responded?” 

  
Brown gives him a look _._ “No. We’re not that stupid.” 

John drums his fingers across the desk. Being name-checked on an illegal phone network is never good. And John is pissed at being dragged into this, and then he’s immediately irritated with himself – because there was a time in John’s life when he would have been more angry that there was someone out there that needed help that badly. That someone was that desperate. John used to care about that sort of thing. 

Brown squints at him. “You’re not thinking of responding, are you?” 

John also used to set his own agenda. Didn’t kowtow to anyone’s _grand plans._ He meets Brown’s eyes. 

“Jesus Christ.” Brown shakes his head. “It could be a setup. The Union trying to draw us out.” 

A valid point. “Why contact me, then? Why not Lombardi?” 

“Because Lombardi would never respond to something like this, and anyone who knows your history knows you’re a softy.” 

John’s mouth curves a little at that, but Brown’s phone buzzes again before he can answer. Brown glances at it, and when he looks up, he’s irritated. “Same message. Re-sent.” 

John shrugs lightly. “If this idiot is just going to keep broadcasting my name across the wires, then we have to respond. If only to get him to shut up.” 

Brown gives him a cool, steady stare-down, and John is reminded that this man is not just a hockey player – not just a dad who spends his free time sprawled on the carpet with his sons, but a soldier. Someone who _fought_ for the resistance before he was caught. Before Lombardi swooped him up, too. “Fine,” he says, although it’s clear he’s not happy about it. “Do it.” 

John replies, _Who are you?_

__

He and Brownie only have to wait a minute before a new message pops up. 

_I left my team. I’m trapped. I need to get out. PLEASE._

__

Brownie just lifts an eyebrow. 

_Where are you?_ John sends back. 

The reply is an address about two hours west of LA, up in the foothills. But still in the Black. Brownie scowls. “If you go, John, and it’s a setup, they’ll have all the evidence they need to convict you of conspiring against the Union.” 

Brownie is, of course, right. John is under explicit instructions to keep a low profile, and he’s pretty sure responding to distress signals doesn’t fall into that category. But then, John has always been very good at skirting the edges of his instructions. “I can come up with an excuse to need to visit our farm team. It’s out that way.” He types out a response while he’s speaking. 

Brownie rolls his eyes. “Lombardi’s not going to like it.” 

John’s eyes flick up to meet his. “Lombardi doesn’t need to know.” 

“Fine, okay?” Brown rubs the bridge of his nose. “ _Fine._ But you’re not going out there alone.” 

“Sure I am.” John returns Brown’s phone to him. 

“No, you’re not.” Brown takes his hand away from his face. “I’ll go with you.” 

John scoffs. “You’re the captain of the team. If something happens, what’s the team going to do without you?” 

“Oh, and you’re disposable? You’re the fucking coach, John.” 

  
“ _One_ of the coaches,” John corrects. “Besides, your face is plastered on the side of the building. Everyone in the Black knows you.” 

Brown scowls. 

“I’ll go with you.” 

They both look up, and it’s Mike Richards standing in the doorway, a phone in his hand, a wary expression on his face. “Not as many people know my face here. And Brownie’s right, you shouldn’t go by yourself.” Mike flushes a little, under their combined gaze. Swallows. But he doesn’t look away. 

And what precisely, John wonders, does Richie think he’s going to get out of this? John narrows his eyes. “We’re going tomorrow. Be ready.” 

 

 

 

 

They slip out after practice the next day. John slides into the driver’s seat of one of the Black’s cars and pauses, looking at Richie. “Do you know how to drive?” 

Richie looks offended. “Yes. My dad taught me in his truck.” 

John does _not_ roll his eyes. “And when was that?”  
  
Richie’s face goes thoughtful. “When I was… fifteen?” 

“Have you driven anything since then?” 

“Well,” Richie hesitates. “Not since I left home.” 

John sighs. Takes his seatbelt back off. “In case something happens to me, you need to be able to get back,” he says, pushing the door back open. “Trade places with me.” 

John has him circle the lot a couple times. He’s hesitant at first, but rapidly grows more confident behind the wheel. John only slams his foot down on his imaginary brake pedal twice. John’s own father had taught him to drive when John was sixteen. 

John’s youngest is sixteen this year. 

He pushes that thought away. 

Richie is smiling a little. “This is fun. Hey, can I – ” 

_“No.”_ And John motions for him to pull over. 

 

 

 

 

John takes them out into the city. At the checkpoints, they each snap a PerT tag off for the guard to put through his card reader. John nods at Richie. “Headed down to the farm team.” 

The militiaman nods. “Sorry,” he says, handing Richie’s tag back to him. Richie shrugs. 

Once they’re out of earshot, he asks, “I don’t actually have to play with the farm team, do I?” 

John shakes his head. “No. You’ll just be fortuitously recalled by the time we get out there.” 

They’ve pushed through the city and are headed out into the distant reaches of the suburbs, when Richie asks. “Why’d this guy ask for you?” 

John hesitates, fingers drumming over the steering wheel. “Back east, I… helped a lot of guys out of bad situations. Guys who didn’t want to play anymore, but who weren’t allowed to quit. Guys that were going to be sent down, or cut entirely and didn’t want to be sentenced to thirty years hard labor.” John glances over. Richie’s gone quiet next to him. 

He looks worried. He finally asks, “That’s what happens?” 

“No, Richie, they all go live on an island and drink mai-tais together.” 

Richie scowls. “Were you always this sarcastic? Or is this a thing you picked up in the Black?” 

The landscape is opening up around them, foothills emerging in the distance. “Nope. Pretty much always this sarcastic.” 

“You know,” Richie mutters. “You hide it well, but you’re kind of a dick.” 

John laughs. “Yeah, well. My wife did always say it was a good thing I was gone so often, or she’d have left me ten times over.” It’s out of his mouth easy and quick, and it catches John by surprise – because he doesn’t, as a rule, talk about her. And if he could snatch the words back, he would. 

But Richie doesn’t say anything, just gives him a curious look. 

John clears his throat. “You ever settle down with someone, you’ll understand.” 

Richie shakes his head at that, smiling just a little. “Jeff used to say– ” He stops. “Never mind.” 

_Fucking subtle, Richie_ . When John glances over, Richie looks away. 

The miles speed by in silence for several minutes, before Richie says, “I was actually engaged. Back in the Orange.” 

And that sounds vaguely familiar. But really, John tried to stay out of his players’ lives off the ice. “Oh? Do you miss her?” 

“ _No._ ” It’s emphatic, almost vicious. “Do you miss your wife?” 

_With every fiber of my being. Every second_ . And he must make some noise, or give something away, because Richie ducks his head. “Sorry. Stupid question.” 

“Yes,” John says around the tightness in his throat, the stone on his chest. “Every day. And my children.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Richie squirm in his seat, the atmosphere in the car gone thin and strained. “You have kids?” Richie finally asks. 

John blinks. Not the question he was expecting. “Three of them. Sixteen, eighteen, and twenty-four.” 

Richie squints at him. “I didn’t realize you were that _old_.” 

John rolls his eyes, hard. Glances over. “Christ. Could you maybe try to go a few minutes without saying something that makes me want to deck you?” But the tension fades, and next to him, Richie is grinning cautiously. “I married my high school sweetheart. We got an early start.” John smiles at the memory. “Married her just in time to move her all the way out to Oshawa. Then to Hershey. Then back again. Then to Michigan, with a baby in tow. She loved that.” 

“I bet.” 

 

 

 

 

The address their mystery correspondent sent turns out to be a house set well up into the foothills. The housing development is half finished, filled with homes under construction, abandoned half-built. They study the house from out front. “If something happens to me,” John says, “take the car and get out of here.” 

Richie rolls his eyes. “Let’s go around back,” he says. 

There are no curtains in front of the sliding glass door, and hiding in the overgrown bushes, they can clearly see a tall man, asleep on a couch in an otherwise empty room. 

John feels ridiculous. “Well. He looks like a hockey player. Tall enough to be.” 

Richie squints. “He’s clearly dumb enough to be a hockey player. Okay. Here goes.” And before John can say anything, Richie walks up to the glass and knocks. 

The guy on the couch starts awake and stares at Richie. Richie waves. The first thing the guys says as he slides the door open is, “I thought you’d be older.” 

Richie just shakes his head. John straightens up and coughs. 

“Oh,” the guy says. “Oh. Wait. Who are you?” 

Richie’s rubbing his forehead with one hand, and there’s a whole lot of judgment in that look. “First up, who the hell are _you?_ And what are you doing blaring John Stevens’ name across the entire network?” 

“Everett Sheahan?” He at least has the intelligence to look abashed. “And I thought it would be safe? I thought just players were on the network?” 

“We _hope_ just players are on the network. It’s a whole lot of people to be sending compromising information out to.” Richie sounds pissed. 

“Um.” Sheahan nods at John. “Sorry?” 

Everett Sheahan is either a hockey player or the world’s best actor. “Look, Sheahan. Why don’t you just tell us what’s going on?” 

Sheahan shifts his weight back and forth, pushes his hair away from his face. “I’d been bouncing around the four-letter leagues – I played for Ontario, then Bakersfield. Fresno for a while.” He shrugs. “But it’s not like it used to be. It’s not hockey anymore. The feeder leagues are all in disarray. We still train, we still work out, but there aren’t any gamesanymore. Or hardly ever.” 

He swallows a couple times, rapidly. “And then they issued us all militia uniforms. And I don’t, I _can’t –_ I ditched my tags.” His hand goes up to his throat, which is conspicuously bare. “I ran away.” __

There are goose bumps popping up all along John’s arms. 

“But now I’m stuck. There are tracking doorways and checkpoints on all the roads out of town. As soon as I try to go through one, they’ll catch me.” 

This is one of those moments, John thinks, where there is an easy thing to do. A smart thing to do. A better in the long run thing to do. 

“Please,” Sheahan says. “I need help.” 

_Fuck._

__

“Okay,” John says. “Get in the trunk.” 

There’s a stash of sticks and spare parts in the trunk that have to be moved out of the way. They tuck Sheahan under a blanket. “Try not to suffocate.” Then John gets out a stick and the stick repair case and sets to work. 

Richie watches all this with an uncertain expression. “What exactly…” 

John ignores him. Pops the battery free of the stick. There’s spare wire in the kit. He strips the ends and wraps one of the battery terminals. Wraps the other end around the clasp on his own PerTs. 

“No seriously, John. What are you doing?” 

John is holding the battery and the wires together with both hands. “Take the other end of that wire and touch it to the battery.” He leans his head out of the way. 

Richie hesitates. 

“We go through those checkpoints and they’re going to know that someone in the car doesn’t have tags on. So we’re going to give them that person.” He looks steadily at Richie. “But I need to get these off without setting off any of the disabling alarms. Okay?” 

Richie finally nods and takes the wire. There’s a brief popping sound, and the clasp on John’s tags slides free. Richie is watching him intently. “Where’d you learn to do that?” 

“Simple electronics,” John says. “It’s not hard.” He hangs the tags from the rearview mirror. 

Richie’s eyeing them like they’re something living, something dangerous. 

“Come on,” John says. “It’ll be fine.” 

At the first checkpoint, the tracking doorway lights up red as they approach. John rolls his window down as one militiaman approaches the car. There’s another standing by, holding a rifle. Richie goes very still next to him. 

John puts both his hands on the wheel and leaves them there. The adrenaline is humming, just under his skin. “The clasp on my tags failed,” he says when the militiaman approaches. He swallows once, because the game is to seem nervous, but not _too_ nervous. “We were headed out to visit the farm team, but now we’re headed back to LA to get it fixed.” 

There’s a pause. “Let me see it.” 

John unwinds them from the rearview and hands them over, heartbeat a steady roar in his ears. 

“How’d it happen?” 

John shrugs. “Just came undone while I was driving.” 

There’s a long stretch of silence, but then, “Yeah, I fucking hate these older models. Flimsy as shit.” The militiaman hands the tags back. “Get it fixed ASAP, alright?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Driving away, Richie gives him a wide-eyed, wary look. “Jesus,” he says finally, heaving a relieved sigh. He’s studying John’s face, and John’s not sure what gives it away. “Jesus. You _liked_ that. You’re fucking _nuts.”_

John smiles. 

 

 

 

 

John deposits Sheahan with Nicole Brown, with the caveat that he needs to keep a low profile and isn’t going to be able to travel far. But that he owes them an enormous favor and she should feel free to put him to work. 

She smirks. “I’m sure I can think of something.” 

Sheahan nods his thanks. “You know, I’m not the only one,” he says. “There are more of us out there that don’t want to be a part of what the Union’s plotting. A lot more. We could be useful.” 

Nicole’s face goes serious and she gives John a long, appraising look. Then she nods, just the slightest inclination of her chin. “Okay,” John tells Sheahan. “Put us in touch.” 

 

 

 

 

Next time they head out, they take the van. 

Richie doesn’t even give him the option of saying no, just shows up at John’s side as he’s preparing to leave and won’t be turned away. 

“I can handle this.” 

Richie snorts and climbs into the passenger seat. “You’re an adrenaline junkie. _Someone_ level-headed ought to go along.” He pulls the seatbelt across his body. “What are we going to do with these guys?” 

John shrugs. “Give them to Nicole. She’ll put them to work. Keep them out of sight.” 

Richie’s chin rests in his hand, thoughtful. “She and Brownie both fought with the resistance movement back east?” 

“Yes,” John answers cautiously, uncertain where Richie’s headed with this. 

“And Quickie.” It’s not a question. “And Greener, although he won’t talk about it.” 

John glances over. He hadn’t known that about Greene. 

Richie’s chewing his bottom lip. “And Pens and Cliffy are both black-tagged for getting in trouble with the Union. And you and me…” He looks over at John. “It’s not a coincidence, is it? That we all ended here, on the Black?” 

“No.” John keeps his voice steady. “It’s not.” 

Richie nods, like he expected as much. “I bet there’s a lot you can’t tell me.” 

“There’s a lot I don’t know.” 

Richie’s face is solemn. He nods again, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, and John turns his attention back to the road. 

 

 

 

 

They arrive at one of the shittiest, most run-down rinks John has ever seen. There are six guys waiting for them. All currently with one of the four-letter leagues. All of whom want out. 

“Here’s how it goes,” John says. “You’re being called up. You sit in the van. You don’t say shit to anyone, and we’ll hit as few checkpoints as we can. You understand?” 

And that would all be fine, if they’re weren’t an entire fucking convoy of militia vehicles rolling past on the highway just beyond the rink’s doors. 

“So I vote we avoid that,” Richie deadpans. 

John rolls his eyes. “Okay. We’ll wait it out here. Leave after they’re gone.” 

John stands near the window, watching the dull, black vehicles roll by, shivering occasionally in the damp chill of the rink. The distant sound of motors is broken only by the occasional cough, until, “As long as we’re sitting around on our asses,” one of the refugees – big, probably a D-man, John thinks – 

throws out, “You guys want to play?” He nods towards the ice. 

Richie’s eyes have a mischievous spark in them. “You’ve never suited up with us before, Coach. Now’s your chance.” 

The nets have holes in them. Who knows what shape the gear is it? “I’m not sure this is a good idea.” In fact, it is a spectacularly bad idea – as John’s knees, right eye, and left ankle would all be more than willing to point out. 

Richie smirks. “Scared?” 

John glares. He really should not be so easily goaded. Except old or not, there’s still that part of him convinced he can beat Richie. “Three on three, plus a man in net. No hits. First team to five wins.” 

Richie’s grinning broadly now. 

“I’ll even,” John tells him graciously, “let you have first overall pick.” 

Richie picks the big, mouthy guy who suggested the game. _God, you can take the kid out of Philly…_

__

John goes small. You can be big and mediocre and play hockey. But if you’re small, you better be good. “You played with the Reign?” John asks. The kid nods. “You’re with me.” 

John consults with his new teammate. “Any of these guys actually goalies?” 

“No.” The little guy – Yeller – looks over their options. “But Brent can double as one. He’s always in net when we play road hockey.” 

  
“Sold.” John takes Brent with his next selection. 

They scavenge gear together, wooden practice sticks and mismatched pads, and take to the ice. John watches intently as Richie huddles with his new team. Then John turns to his guys. “Okay. Here’s what they’re going to do. Richie is going to win the draw, the big guys are going to try to hold a lane. Richie is going to bring the puck up. You – ” He nods at his last pickup, Davis, “ – are going to force him to the wall, whichever side he comes down. I’ll pick him up in front of the net. Yeller, stay high, and be ready because I’m going to send the puck to you at the blue line. You wheel at that point, because their team is going to be slow as shit. Their goalie is basically immobile. You should be able to tap it in.” 

“Remember,” John adds. “These sticks are going to be a lot lighter than you’re used to. You won’t need as much force.” 

His team is looking at him skeptically, but the first draw goes _exactly_ like John said it would. They’re up 1-0. 

They pick another one up before Richie realizes it’s not a fluke. 

Richie stares _hard_ at him for a second, and then he calls his guys in. 

He shoulders past Yeller on the next draw, drives to the net, deking neatly past Davis andJohn. And, shit, John forgot just how good Richie can be when properly motivated. 2-1. 

It’s all tied up when Richie tries driving the net again. John picks him up, flying backwards up the ice, and just when he’s about to get his stick in and strip him, Richie drops his shoulder and levels him. 

John goes sliding across the ice, bouncing off the end boards, and almost instantly, he’s blinking up into Richie’s worried face. “Sorry.” Richie is flushed and contrite. “I sort of forgot about the whole no checking thing for a second.” He offers John a hand up. 

“Guys,” Brent is calling to them from across the ice. He points at the window. “Convoy’s gone.” 

In the van, Davis mutters thoughtfully, “I’ve never been called up before. What am I supposed to look like?” 

Richie grins evilly and turns around. “Look nervous.” 

 

 

 

 

_Six_ players is apparently enough to ping on Dean Lombardi’s radar. “John. Six players disappeared off various southern California farm teams yesterday. Which would normally raise more of a fuss except that they’ve all been mysteriously marked ‘transferred’ on their PerT records.” 

John reminds himself to thank Nicole Brown, who is magic when it comes to manipulating League records. 

“And while normally I wouldn’t care, at least one of those players disappeared off my farm team’s farm team. Which, I suppose, makes me think of it as a little bit like _my_ team.” Lombardi narrows his eyes. “And when I started asking questions, I discovered Mr. Ellsbee, who runs my farm team’s farm team, had no recollection of transferring the player in question, and that in fact, those instructions had come from _me.”_

He’s been pacing, but now he stops in front of John. “You can imagine what an awkward moment that was. You might also imagine how interesting it was to find out you had borrowed one of the Black’s vans on that very same day. John.” 

John folds his hands in his lap and tries not to feel like a chastened schoolboy. “Do you know what’s happening on those farm teams?” 

Lombardi’s jaw sets into a hard line. And that’s enough of an answer for John. “They’re turning them into soldiers, Dean. That’s not right.” 

Dean Lombardi sighs and sits on the edge of his desk. “There are a lot of distasteful things occurring in this league at all levels. I’m not about to jeopardize my plans over a handful of players.” 

“It’s more than a handful of players,” John snaps. “And we haveto do this. When the shit hits the fan, we’re going to need as many friends as we can get around here. Everyone that we don’t take away is conceivably going to be another guy pointing a rifle at us.” 

Lombardi’s face is stony. “You know, this is great deal like what you got in trouble for, back in the Orange.” 

“And you hired me after that anyway,” John says. “It isn’t even hockey what they’re being asked to do; it’s wrong – ” 

“And what we play is hockey?” Lombardi snaps. “Is what we do really what you remember hockey being?” 

John stops. 

Lombardi’s staring, looking transparently furious for once. “It’s not.” He shakes his head in disgust. He takes a breath and when he looks up, that calm mask is back in place. “Did you know they’ve gotten rid of the Draft entirely?” He sounds honestly curious. “They go town to town, raiding the schools. Pillaging the youth. They’re raising an army. They’re getting ready.” He pauses. “We have to be ready, too.” 

“You’re not exactly talking me out of this.” 

Lombardi scoffs. “No, I suppose not. But if you get caught – ” 

“I’m not going to get caught. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell them anything.” 

Lombardi’s focuses on John, and for a second his friendly veneer falls away again, his gaze is frighteningly cold. “If you get caught, John, you won’t live long enough to talk.” 

There’s a knock at the door, and Lombardi straightens, warm smile falling instantly back into place. “Stick around,” he says, getting up to answer the door. “We have something else we need to discuss.” 

It’s Sutter who’s at the door, and he looks between John and Lombardi quickly, one gray eyebrow going up before folding himself gracelessly into one of Lombardi’s office chairs. “We need scoring help,” he says shortly. 

Lombardi looks bemused. “As I was saying.” He turns to John. “Darryl will be joining us to talk about a possible player acquisition.” 

Sutter scoffs. “Possible? Either you want to make the postseason or you don’t. And to do that, we need scoring help.” 

Lombardi regards Sutter evenly for a moment, then he looks at John.  
  
John’s heart is still beating a touch too quickly. He’s having a hard time switching trains of thought, but, “We do need some help up front. Someone who can add goals.” 

Lombardi drums his fingers against the tabletop. “You both know what we’re trying to build here.” His glance at John is particularly sharp. 

“We’re not going to get to the Cup Final if we can’t score goals,” Sutter says dryly. “Not even with Quickie in net.” 

Lombardi tips his head in acknowledgment. “I take it you have suggestions?” 

“The Bruins are shopping Pouliot.” Sutter never bothers with the color province bullshit behind closed doors. John appreciates that about him. 

Lombardi shakes his head. “Not exactly a huge step up from what we have.” 

“We could go after Semin,” John says. 

Sutter snorts. “McPhee still thinks they have a shot. There’s no way he lets Semin go.” 

Lombardi sighs. “What about Kostitsyn?” 

“Attitude.” Sutter rolls his eyes. “I don’t want that in my room.” 

At which point, John holds a brief internal debate before pronouncing, “Carter’s being shopped.” 

_“Attitude,_ ” Sutter repeats darkly. 

John frowns. “I didn’t have a problem with him in Philly.” 

Lombardi gives him a _look_. “He got run out of Philly, black-tagged, and sent to Columbus. You don’t think that maybe suggests he developed some kind of problem?” 

“The only thing I think it suggests is that he didn’t get along with Paul Holmgren.” There’s a voice in John’s head demanding to know why he’s pushing this. John shoves it to the side and peers at the two other men over his glasses. “A position with which I firmly sympathize.” 

Sutter scrolls down the page on his tablet. “Nash is putting up better numbers.”  
  


Lombardi scrubs a hand across his face. “Yeah, but Howson’s going to want the sun and the moon and the stars in exchange for Nash. Carter is cheap.” 

“Cheap for a reason, most likely.” Sutter looks sour. 

Lombardi is drumming his fingers again. “Could be a stupid reason.” He looks at John. “You didn’t have any problems with him?” 

John shakes his head. “I think he’d be a good fit here.” 

Lombardi looks speculative. “Find out why he was traded,” he tells John. “Find out why he’s cheap.” 

 

 

 

 

So now he’s going to have to have that particular conversation with Richie. Without getting his hopes up. John snorts. _Yeah fucking right._

“I need to speak with you, Richards.” 

Richie breaks off from the conversation he’s having with Stoll and follows him back to his office. “Yeah, Coach?” 

“Sit.” Richie sits and watches John close the door behind them – face getting more wary by the second. John takes his seat across the desk. “We’re trying to bring in some scoring help.” Richie is holding himself very still, but his eyes get wide. “And we’re considering Carter.” 

Richie nods stiffly. 

“I need to know if he’s going to be a problem – ” 

“No,” Richie says quickly. “No, he’s not going to be a problem. Coach, you _know_ him, you _know – ”_

__

John holds out a hand to cut him off. “Richie.” But then he stops again. They have this careful detente – Richie almost maybe counts as a friend at this point, but John still does not want to have this conversation. “I need to know why he was traded out of Philadelphia.” 

Richie flushes red. “I told you already.” 

“You told me why you were traded.” John watches his face, but Richie’s looking down at his hands. “Was he injured?” John asks. “Did he get hurt?” 

“No.” Richie runs an anxious hand through his hair. “He hurt his foot in the playoffs but he _got better_. He was _fine._ ” Richie’s shifting restlessly, spitting the words out. 

“Then why?” John presses. “Why would Holmgren trade him?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Richie. If I don’t know whyHolmgren traded him – then all I’m left with is a player that there is some vague, nebulous thing wrong with – and that’s not a player I can sell Lombardi on. You understand that, right?” 

__

For a long moment, Richie doesn’t say anything, just stares at his lap, chest rising and falling rapidly. John is about to press him again, when Richie mumbles, “We were fucking, okay? We were fucking, and I was stupid, and we got caught. Holmgren had pictures of us. Of me and Jeff. Having sex.” Richie swallows several times and there’s a pause before he starts speaking again. “Jeff told Holmgren that he forced me to do it. Blackmailed me, or something, I don’t know.” He looks up, gazing shifting from one corner of the room to the next, anywhere but at John, face looking miserable and humiliated. 

There was a time when John’s job didn’t involve raking his players’ personal lives over the coals, didn’t require humiliating anyone. _Nice work,_ John thinks, _coach of the fucking year._ But the fact that this is basically the lastthing Richie would like to confess to makes John fairly certain he’s telling the truth. 

“He didn’t. Force me,” Richie adds, as if that needed clarification. He worries at one of his knuckles. And then he takes a breath, slow and deliberate. He looks John in the eye. “He’s really good. You knowhe would do good things for this team. And I – I would do anything to have him back. I mean, John, if you could bring your wife out here, wouldn’t you?” 

The instant anger he feels takes John by surprise. “That’s hardly the same thing,” he bites out. 

Richie cuts off abruptly, the hurt sharp and clear on his face. He looks down at his hands. “Anyway,” he mumbles. “He scores goals. He’d be good for the team.” 

 

 

 

 

John rides that wave of righteous anger through the rest of the day – snapping at the guys in practice. Chewing out the kid that edits game tape. It’s not his finest moment. And running through his head the whole time is, _how dare he even compare_ – 

It’s late by the time he gets a spare moment to himself. He sits down to write. _Dear Anna –_

__

John stops. He can see her face so clearly, the way her mouth looks when she’s disappointed, the look she would give him, like she knows he can better and she’s just wanting for him to figure it out. John’s chest goes tight. And the longing is back, as bad as it was when he first got shipped out here, as bad as it’s ever been. It’s a pounding sensation behind his eyes, something gasping and clawing at him. A piece of him ripped away and missing. 

John thinks about her voice, warm and clear through the phone on the thousand and one road trips he went on. Her arms around him every time he’d come back home. 

And then he thinks about Richie. He thinks about the kid whose eyes had trailed after Carter from the moment he stepped off the bus in the Orange. The way Richie had thrown himself at Carter after the game against Columbus. 

How dare Mike Richards draw that comparison? How dare he sit in John’s office and shake and put that decision on John? How dare he be so stupid, and naïve, and trusting, looking at John like John’s a good person, like John will do the right thing? 

__

Doing the right thing has never brought John anything but shit. 

 

 

 

 

He swings by players’ quarters on the way back from Lombardi’s office. 

He finds Richie in one of the lounges – sandwiched on the couch between Mitchell and Penner. Mitchell glares at him. Okay. Maybe John deserves that. “Richards?” 

Richie follows him out stiffly, every inch of his posture like he’s steeling himself for something. “I – what I said yesterday,” John stops. “It was unnecessarily cruel.” 

Richie shrugs. “It’s true.” 

“It – ” John sighs, frustrated. “It wasn’t always like this. And maybe it shouldn’t be. I don’t know.” 

Richie blinks at him, uncomprehending. Which, even John’snot really sure what he’s trying to say, so. He shakes his head. “Richie, Lombardi’s making an offer on him tomorrow morning.” __

“To bring Jeff here?” Richie looks dangerously, transparently hopeful. 

“Yeah.” 

Richie’s throat works. “It’s not a done deal,” John cautions. “It’s – ” 

“Thank you. John – thank you.” 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jeff wakes up back in his cell. He rolls over onto his back. The ceiling is gray, bare. 

He tastes blood, and his lip feels sore, puffy under his fingers. The skin over the knuckles on his hands is split open, bleeding sluggishly. His memory is irritatingly blank. 

The door swings open, and it’s Howson, preceded by two guards. Jeff starts to scramble upright, but the guards grab him, press him face first into the floor, arms twisted behind him. 

Above him, Howson sighs. “Jeff Carter.” He leans down and runs a finger along the length of Jeff’s arm. “It’s too bad you’re not going to work out here.” 

There’s a bright, quick sting in his arm and the room starts to go fuzzy. “Get him ready for transport.” Howson sounds distant, as though speaking from down a long tunnel. Jeff blacks out. 

Reality blurs, slipping by him. 

Time is unsteady, ungraspable, like it was when he first arrived in the Silver & Blue. He’s being shoved from one place to the next, unknown hands on him. The sense of being in motion is back for a while, and then it’s gone. 

For the first time in a long time, he dreams of Mike. Mike standing with strangers. Mike with Coach Stevens. But always Mike – close and warm and real, hands on his shoulders, telling him to come inside. 

He dreams Mike’s hands are on his face, familiar even when his eyes can’t quite focus. Saying things that Jeff can’t quite make out, or don’t make sense. Mike is settling him in a room, hands on his shoulders, pushing him down onto a bed. “Time to get some rest.” 

It’s an odd dream to include both the feeling of Mike’s hands on him and the throbbing headache that usually signals the drugs they’ve given him are wearing off. “Sleep that must be slept,” Jeff mumbles back at him. “Grass that must be eaten, holes that must be dug.” 

Mike hums absent agreement. “Whatever you say, bud.” He presses Jeff back against the sheets and the room spins a little. “We’re sleeping now.” Mike’s hands are on him again. Jeff twists uncomfortably, his fingers feel frighteningly real, and Jeff doesn’t want to be held down. Doesn’t want to be touched. Mike’s grip tightens. “Shh. No, it’s fine. It’s fine, Jeff. Trust me.” 

And he’s supposedto trust Mike, isn’t he? But nothing is clear, everything is jumbled and unsteady. Mike crawls in next to him, and hesitates just a second before wrapping himself around Jeff – face pressed tight into Jeff’s neck, arms locked around his waist. 

It’s quiet enough Jeff can hear him breathing. Mike makes a small noise into the skin of Jeff’s throat, and his fingers dig into Jeff’s arms, triggering a low, steady thrum of irritation. Banked anger. Jeff’s skin is flushed; he can feel sweat beading in the places where Mike’s pressed up tight against him, skin crawling at the unfamiliar contact. _It’s Mike,_ he tells himself, _it’s okay, because it’s just Mike._ And that doesn’t quite make sense, but Jeff’s too exhausted, too addled to process that. “Mike?” 

“Shh, Jeff. Sleep.” 

Jeff closes his eyes. 

 

 

 

 

Jeff starts awake all at once – heart _hammering_ away in his chest. Reality is clear and hard-edged, and he’s shaking off the last remnants of a dream, and all he remembers is being so angry _._ Jeff’s covered in clammy sweat, adrenaline clanging and echoing down his veins. He sits upright. The room is _wrong –_ doorway on the wrong side, dresser in the wrong place. There’s a noise from just through the doorway, and a light goes on behind the mostly-shut door. 

Jeff’s heart is going to pound out of his chest. He swallows. Behind the door, he can hear the sound of a faucet running. He can hear someone swearing softly. 

He can hear _Mike_ swearing softly. 

And it’s coming back to him in fragments and pieces. Mike is here, somehow. Or Jeff is there, but the room’s all wrong to be Philadelphia – and that doesn’t even make sense _._

Jeff shivers. The collar of his t-shirt is soaked through with sweat. “Mike?” 

“It’s nothing.” Mike sounds muffled. “Go back to sleep.” 

And that _is_ Mike. The blankets are twisted tight around Jeff. Sliding them back, he gets up and pushes the door to the bathroom open. Mike is bent over the sink, washing his face. Mike Richards is standing _right there_. Right in front of him. Jeff is so lost; he’s hit with this wave of disorientation, confusion, and it’s all shot through with tight, hot anger, because _how –_ __

Mike glances up, meets his eyes in the mirror. There’s blood all down the front of his shirt. They stand there for a second, both frozen. Abruptly, Jeff gets it – _he_ did that. He did that toMike. 

Jeff’s anger rolls back, abandons him, and he is just confused and exhausted and _lost._ He slumps against the door. 

“It’s nothing, Jeff, it’s fine,” Mike says again; he’s stopped what he’s doing and he’s watching Jeff carefully. “It was an accident. You were dreaming – you just caught me in the nose.” 

Jeff’s own face looks white in the mirror. There is a lot of blood. Jeff needs to sit down. It’s just a couple steps to the edge of the bed, and he collapses down onto it – his breath is coming too fast – his chest feels tight. 

“Shit.” Mike follows him out, towel clamped to his face. “Jeff, I’m fine _._ ” 

Jeff can’t quite catch his breath. “Where – why – ” 

“You’re here. In the Black. With me.” Mike’s kneeling in front of him, speech firm and steady. He puts a hand on Jeff’s knee and Jeff stares at it. 

Here. In the Black. In Mike’s room. “I shouldn’t be here. We’re going to get caught. They watch me. I have to go.” 

“No. _No_.” Mike looks wild-eyed for a second. His grip on Jeff’s leg tightens. “Let’s just go back to bed, okay? Get some sleep? We’ll both be better tomorrow, alright?” When Jeff hesitates, he adds, “Come on. Please?” 

It’s all desperately unreal, and Jeff is too tired to fight. Lying next to him in bed, Mike’s breathing eventually evens out. Slows. But Jeff spends a long time staring at the ceiling. 

 

 

 

 

Jeff dreams of warmth and dappled sunlight. Walking towards a house at the end of the street. The breeze at his back. 

He wakes back in a bed in an ice center. No rustle of leaves, just the steady, artificial hum of the climate control. Thin blankets that smell slightly of bleach. He looks over – Mike is still next to him, face slack with sleep. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, the number ten stitched onto the chest in silver thread. Jeff stares at it for a long time. 

That day, Jeff has a rush of appointments – to be fitted for new gear. A new stick. New skates. Mike shadows him through all of it, directing him with small, careful touches that grow more hesitant when Jeff flinches away from them. Mike’s face is worried, hurt. Jeff looks away. 

Jeff has to be evaluated by the trainers, get an X-ray, a bone scan. No one is happy about Jeff’s foot. 

“How’d you break it?” The trainer asks. 

“They broke it for me,” Jeff answers. Numbly. Tonelessly. 

A long, awkward silence stretches out. Finally, the trainer clears his throat. “There’s no bone displacement, but I’d like to start weaning you off the nerve block. It’ll be more uncomfortable in the short term, but I’m worried about long-term nerve damage.” 

They’re all watching him: the trainer and Mike. Coach Stevens and Sutter, who have both shown up for this appointment. It would not be okay to panic. Don’t panic. Don’t run. “Okay.” Jeff keeps squeezing the edge of the table he’s sitting on, desperate for something to ground him. And – he’s out; he’s in the Black, on Mike’s team. He’s supposed to be happy, he’s supposed to be fine. 

But instead there’s just a rising tide of anxiety, his heart thumping too fast in his chest. Jeff grips the table harder, swallows it back. 

When he gets cleared to play, Stevens says, “You’re on Richards’ line tonight, Carter. With King.” His face is perfectly blank, and Jeff understands that he’s being given something. A gift, or a test. Maybe both. 

 

 

 

 

Mike’s eyes follow him all through that day, worried and solemn, a weight and a pressure on the back of Jeff’s neck. In the locker room, he doesn’t make any pretense of not watching Jeff undress. Mike’s jaw is clamped shut, his mouth a thin, unhappy line. Jeff’s not sure what he’s looking at. The bruises down his sides, maybe. Or the scrapes across his knuckles. Or the tattoo. 

“You’re too thin,” Mike says finally. 

Jeff shrugs and pulls on his undershirt. 

Dustin Brown sits down on the bench next to him. “You ready, Carter?” 

Jeff nods. 

Brown squints at Richie’s face – Mike’s nose is still a little swollen – and a frown passes over his features, but he masks it just as quickly. “You had some good shots in practice today. You’ll be fine.” Brown smiles and claps him on the shoulder on his way out. Jeff tries not to wince at the contact. 

This whole thing, this whole place, feels very, very strange. Unpredictable. Jeff is still half-convinced he’s going to wake up back in Columbus. Scott Howson’s foot still on his throat. 

Coach Sutter isn’t apparently much for pregame speeches. “We’re building something here,” he says shortly. “Something important.” He waives a hand vaguely. “Traffic to the net. Shots on goal. Win.” 

Hockey is hockey is hockey. The uniforms are different, but the game is the same. Jeff’s first shift he powers down the far wall, gets the puck in deep, and he’s about to skate it around the net, except that Mike is suddenly _right there_. Right where he needs to be, in front of the crease. Jeff fires off the pass. 

The goalie blocks the shot, but it jostles Jeff, a little. There’s a flicker there. Something bright and hopeful, because Mike is on Jeff’s left. And Jeff is on Mike’s right. 

 

 

 

 

The team is cheerful – joshing Quick, giving him congratulatory punches to the shoulder for the shutout as they trail out of the locker room. Pens has his arm around Martinez’ shoulder, laying out his grand plans for their off day. Voynov and Lokti are teasing each other. They’re speaking too quickly for Jeff to follow the Russian, but he can pick out a few words and phrases. _Pass_ and _block_ and _nice nice nice_ and _the girl in the stands, did you see her?_

Jeff follows them as they head upstairs. But Lokti and Voynov both disappear into rooms interspersed with the rest of the team’s. No separate import quarters. 

“Hey.” Mike appears next to him, he gestures hesitantly at his own doorway. “Are you coming?” 

Jeff nods, unsure what else to do, and follows him in. “Where’s my room?” 

Mike sets down his keys, shrugs his bag off his shoulder. “I thought you might want to room with me. I want you to room with me.” 

What Jeff wants is a thousand locked doors between him and everything _._ A lock that only he has the key to. 

“Brown’s in charge of room assignments. And.” Mike ducks his head, embarrassed. “He knows. They all know.” 

Mike’s wearing his stupid, crooked smile, and it’s clear he’s convinced that what everyone supposedly knows _–_ that it’s true. That it’s still true. He thinks Jeff will be what he was, before. He thinks Jeff is fine. And he has _no idea –_

Jeff can feel the blood rise under his skin, something bitter in the back of his throat. Jeff sits down carefully. __

Mike pulls his chair up to the edge of the bed, sitting so close that his legs bracket one of Jeff’s. “I maybe went overboard looking for you,” he confesses. “I think probably the whole leagueknows how I feel about you.” His mouth twists like he’s tasting something sour. “I was kind of messed up for a while, but there are a lot of really good guys playing for the Black. They took care of me. And now you’re here.” 

Like that means everything’s fixed. 

He’s looking at Jeff with this terrible intensity, like Jeff is something wonderful, something precious that’s just been returned to him. Looking at him just like he did when Jeff saw him after the Silver  & Blue played Mike’s team. He hadn’t known what to say then, either. 

It’s a look laden with so much want, so much affection that Jeff has no idea how to return. He gets a rush of guilt that settles sick and heavy inside him. 

Mike leans in, brings his mouth to Jeff’s carefully, lightly. “I don’t even know what to _say_.” Mike can’t seem to stop moving his hands, they drift lightly over Jeff’s face, skim his shoulders, slide back up to link behind Jeff’s neck. Jeff holds himself perfectly still. Mike presses in closer and kisses him again. Longer, this time. 

Jeff squeezes his eyes shut. He can get over this. He can get through this. But there’s a tight, heady panic coalescing in his chest. His skin is stretched too tight, his heart is beating too fast. And part of Jeff still believes he should be fine with this. Jeff should know how to do this. Mike expects him to know how to do this, and Jeff has spent basically his whole adult life trying to live up to what Mike thinks he’s capable of. 

So he kisses Mike back – careful at first, then with more urgency. Mike sighs happily against his mouth, pulls Jeff closer, and Jeff’s hands are on Mike too. He finds himself cataloging the half-forgotten landmarks of Mike’s body: the tiny divot of a scar near Mike’s jawline. His chipped tooth. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck. His body still responds to Mike. His dickstill recognizes the press and slide of Mike’s hands. Still knows what comes next. 

Mike’s breathing gets rougher and he presses Jeff back against the bed. It’s surreal – feeling Mike move over him. Mike’s hips are pressing up into him. He breaks away from Jeff’s mouth. “I missed you so bad,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry, Jeff, I’m _so,_ _so_ sorry – ” 

Mike’s voice is thick with guilt, and Jeff can’t – he needs to shut the words off, they makes the anger in him leap up, sharp and bright. He seals his mouth to Mike’s, pulls him down, and flips them so it’s Mike being pushed into the sheets. 

Mike groans, smiles up at Jeff. “Will you fuck me?” 

Yeah, Jeff should have been able to call that one. Mike on top of the world wants to fuck something. Mike when he’s feeling insecure wants to _get_ fucked. Jeff heart is thumping up against his rib cage, but he nods anyway. 

It’ll be fine. And it’ll make Mike happy. Possibly, it’ll also keep Mike from noticing he’s damaged goods. 

Mike strips. He’s pressing something into Jeff’s hand, a bottle. And turning over to lie on his stomach. 

Jeff kneels over him, and there’s an intense, fluttering sensation in his chest, but he presses on. Presses a finger inside Mike, runs the other hand over his back. Mike shivers under his touch. Jeff slides his hand along Mike’s arm to cover his wrist. He watches the twist and flex of the muscles in Mike’s back, and for a second it’s so familiar that it’s like no time has passed at all, and Jeff just does what he always does at this point: leans down to kiss the spot between his shoulder blades. 

But it’s just a moment, and then it all rushes back, and Jeff’s so caught up in the thud of his own heartbeat in his ears, working so hard to keep his hands from trembling, that he doesn’t notice at first – doesn’t notice the way his grip on Mike’s wrist has tightened, the way he’s pressing it hard, at an awkward angle, into one of the slats of the headboard. 

When he does notice, it’s almost like he’s stepped outside himself for a moment, like he’s a casual observer of the scene. Here is one hand clutching at a wrist. Pressing it hard enough that the area’s gone white. And why wouldn’t Mike say anything? It can’t be comfortable. It has to hurt. Out of a sort of morbid curiosity, Jeff presses _harder._ And sure enough, with some satisfaction he registers that Mike’s mouth tightens in a grimace, but Mike just turns his face farther into the pillow, hiding his expression. 

_I wonder what he’d let me do_ . The thought is curiously flat, passionless, and followed immediately by _he’d definitely let me break his foot._

__

And just like that, Jeff’s slammed home into his own body, and it’s _his_ hand on Mike’s wrist, pressing down, _he’s_ the one making Mike grimace in pain – 

Jeff throws himself backwards off the bed, doesn’t stop until he hits the far wall. He’s breathing hard. There’s a roaring sound in his ears. He’s going to be sick. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Mike’s twisted around to look at him. 

Jeff stares at him. “I – you weren’t – I was hurting you.” 

A guilty expression flashes across Mike’s face, but then he shakes his head, deliberately misunderstanding. “It’s just been while. It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

Which is _bullshit_. Jeff can still seethe red indent on Mike’s wrist. “It’s not fine. Why didn’t you say something? Why’d you let me do that?” 

Mike swallows, brow furrowed in a small frown – the face he makes when he’s coming up with some bullshit excuse. The face he makes when he’s about to lie. 

“I can’t do this, Mike.” Jeff pushes himself up, off the wall. He needs – _something –_ between them, a barrier, a wall, or _clothing_ at the very least. Jeff casts about for his pants, pulling them on roughly. “I should go.” 

“ _No._ ” Mike comes tripping off the bed, coming to a stop to stand between Jeff and the door. “Don’t go.” 

Jeff’s pulse ticks up another notch. “Don’t you see what just happened? I can’t be here. I can’t do this. I am going to _hurt_ you.” 

__

“I don’t care!” Mike looks totally wild now. “I don’t care – just don’t leave. Please don’t leave me.” 

They’re staring at each other, both breathing hard. Mike’s got an arm flung out in front of him, like he’s prepared to hold Jeff back. “Don’t leave me,” he says again. 

“Mike.” Jeff is struggling to stay rational, but the adrenaline is flooding in, the hair on the back of his neck standing up, and there’s only _one_ door, only _one_ way out of here. Jeff takes a step toward the door. 

Mike grabs his wrist. 

Jeff _panics_ – 

 

 

 

 

“Jeff.” 

_“Jeff.”_

Jeff blinks. Mike is sitting crossed-legged on the floor a few feet from him. Chin propped in his hand. Jeff is apparently also on the floor, curled in the corner. 

_Like a crazy person._

“Lost you for a second there.” Mike’s got a bruise purpling on one cheekbone. He’s wearing sweats. 

The last thing Jeff remembers is – 

Jeff gets another little rush of adrenaline just thinking about it. The last thing he remembers thinking is that he needed to get out, get _away_. 

“Hey, easy.” Mike’s looking at him worried. “You’re okay.” 

Jeff lets his head tip back against the wall before looking over at Mike again. He is deeply, deeply exhausted. “I’m not okay.” 

“No. That was my fault. I scared you a little, I think.” Mike rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “What’s going on up there?” He straightens, flips his hand up towards Jeff’s head. 

Jeff draws his knees tighter into his chest. 

“It’s me.” Mike starts to reach for Jeff but stops midway, hand floating in midair. “It’s just me.” 

It is. Just Mike. Mike, who’s watched over him and watched out for him. Mike, who’s been by his side every goddamn day since he left the Blue  & White, until – until he wasn’t. 

Jeff is angry. Angry in a way that is deep set and vicious. So angry his eyes are stinging and his hands are curling into fists. “I need to go.” 

Mike shakes his head; his face has gone all placating again, and he’s still edging closer. 

“I need to _go_ , Mike.” Jeff closes his eyes, and it’s like trying to dampen a drumbeat, trying to dam a river with his hands. “I’m going to hurt you. I don’t want to, but I will.” 

“No.” And it’s breathtakingly familiar – hearing Mike talk like he could just will things into existence by just saying them. Just make them true with the force of his belief. Jeff opens his eyes, and the way Mike’s looking at him, Jeff can tell he’s seeing the Jeff Carter he used to know. The one he left behind in Philadelphia. Who loved hockey and scoring goals and whiskey and dancing. Who really thought there was a chance, even if it was a small one, that things might turn out fine. 

Jeff brings his hand up, lets the tips of his fingers trail over Mike’s throat. 

Mike doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Jeff presses lightly, feeling the cartilage just under the skin. “You stupid fucker,” he says. “You’d let me.” 

Mike swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing under Jeff’s fingertips. “Please,” he says. “Don’t leave. I want – ” 

Jeff’s hand hovers over his throat for a second longer, and then he shoves hard at Mike’s chest instead, sends him sprawling backwards. “So you should get everything you want, is that it? You got Julia. You got to talk to your parents. Got made captain. And now you get me again? Just pick up where we left off, is that what you want?” Jeff can’t catch his breath, his chest heaving. “I gave up _everything_ so you could stay in the Orange,” he hisses. 

“I’m _sorry_. I keep trying to tell you – ” 

“I don’t want to hear it,” Jeff shouts, and there’s a thump on the other side of the wall. They both freeze, go quiet for a second. “Ask me what _I_ want, Mike.” 

Mike’s jaw works. “What do you want?” He asks brokenly. 

“I want control over _something_ in my own life.” His voice sounds unrecognizable, bitter and twisted, even to his own ears. And Jeff don’t even care what it is, just one tiny, fucking thing. Anything 

Mike swallows, lost. “I don’t know what you want me to say. What do you want me to – ” 

“I want you to leave me the fuck alone.” 

Mike’s face is so shocked, so hurt, and even as angry as he is, it’s tearing at Jeff just to look at him. 

There’s a knock at the door. “Ricky?”  
  


Mike doesn’t move, doesn’t look at the door, doesn’t glance away from his face. Jeff gets up, snagging his shirt on the way. When he answers the door, it’s Brown standing there, looking concerned. “Can you show me,” Jeff asks him tightly, “where my room is?” 

 

 

 

 

Jeff likes his room – it has a door, it _locks_ , it is nothing short of miraculous. The first night in it he locks the door and pushes the desk in front of it for good measure. 

Outside his room, Jeff sticks close with the Black’s imports. Lokti, who did a double-take the first time Jeff addressed him in his slow, broken Russian, and Voynov and Kopitar. Lokti and Voynov are just rookies, but Kopitar wears the ‘A’, and Jeff watches as he and Brown conduct intense, silent discussions only via eye contact. At one point, Brown looks significantly at Jeff and then back at Kopitar. 

After a second, Kopitar nods. 

Jeff keeps his head down. Eats when he’s told to eat. Plays when he’s told to play. And, like now, shows up to meetings when he’s told to show up to meetings. 

Off the ice, even in these common spaces, Mike leaves him alone – although his gaze still trails after him. Jeff can feel the weight of it. Mike’s got dark circles under his eyes. He brings a hand up to his mouth, but there’s nothing left to worry at, nails all bitten off to the quick. Mitchell settles in the seat next to him, one hand jostling Mike’s shoulders until Mike looks up and gives him a crooked, half-smile. 

It’s usually Mitchell. Or Brown. But there’s always someone. 

Jeff drifts towards the back of the room, sits next to Lokti. “Yeshchyo raz?” Because seriously, video review _again?_

Lokti shrugs. “Stevens video nravitsya.” 

Kopi settles in on Jeff’s other side just as Coach Stevens’ dims the lights. An image of one of the Gold’s breakouts loads on the screen. 

The projector lights up Mike’s profile with a bluish glow. 

“Shh,” Kopi scolds. “Pay attention and you might learn something.” 

 

 

 

 

On the ice, Mike goes out of his way to set Jeff up. 

They still play on a line together, because it’s still mindlessly, astonishingly easy to play hockey with Mike. Apparently, no amount of off-ice bullshit can fuck that up. It’s still as natural as breathing. Jeff always knows where Mike is on the ice, even when he can’t see him. Even when he can’t hear him. And he can tell – it’s in the way Mike dallies an extra beat, waiting for Jeff to drive the net, in the way he passes rather than snapping it from the point. 

Jeff picks up his first point four games in. Against the Gold – who are not as chippy as the Gold & White, or as fast as the Red & Green, or quite as loaded up front as the Blue & Green – but are proving tougher to beat than any of those three. 

They get lucky – going up on the power play in the second when the Gold left-winger gets called for tripping. Mike centers it to Jeff, right in the slot. The goalie’s slow, still turning, still trying to get re-positioned, and the D is caught out – 

Jeff wrists it – and it’s in. 

Doughty hits him first, sliding into him from the side, an arm thrown around his shoulders – 

Jeff’s thoughts skip, go staticky, and the next thing he knows he’s being all but picked up, towed backwards by Penner, who has a hand fisted in Jeff’s jersey. “What the _fuck?”_ he hisses in Jeff’s ear. Doughty is sprawled on the ice, a look of confusion on his face. When Jeff looks around, even Mike is looking at him cautious, wary. 

Jeff’s got his stick in his hand. He drops it. 

“Ah, ah.” Penner catches it before it can hit the ice and starts guiding him roughly towards the bench, mumbling the whole time about _batshit crazy Russians_. “You want to freak out, you do it on your own time.” 

On the bench, Jeff darts a cautious look at Doughty. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, low. 

Doughty looks skeptical, but he says, “That’s cool. Keep scoring goals. Maybe next time we’ll just fist bump or something, okay?” 

Jeff puts another one in ten minutes later. He sort of feels like he owes it to them. 

At dinner, Penner shakes his head. “Right, well. If nobody else is going to say it, I will. The goals thing is making it really hard to dislike you. But shoving Dewey, that wasn’t cool. I mean – look at him. He’s too dumb to be mean to.” Penner is down towards one end of the table, near Mike and Doughty. He has to raise his voice to get it to carry down towards where Jeff is sitting with a cluster of imports. The rest of the table goes quiet. 

Doughty sets his fork down. “Hey – ” 

“ _Pens,_ ” Brown warns. 

“And,” Penner presses on undiscouraged. “Don’t think I didn’t notice Ricky’s _face.”_

“Come on, Pens,” Mike says quietly. “Let it go.” 

Jeff pushes the food around his plate. “I’m sorry,” he offers. “It was an accident.” 

“Okay then.” Penner nods at him. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Don’t do it again.” 

 

 

 

 

Penner’s big mouth is sort of typical, actually. They’re a chatty team – on the ice it’s a constant stream of vocal cues, _here_ and _wheel_ and _boards_ and _skate_ – ricocheting around the rink like radar pings. Off the ice, it’s the vets – Scuderi, Greene, and Mitchell – who check in on the rookies and the new guys. Kopitar who keeps an eye on the imports. All of whom in turn check in with Brown. 

Every day, Mitchell asks Jeff something. Usually something stupid. 

“What’s your favorite color, Carter?” 

“Hey Carts, where’d you play your junior?” 

Today, Mitchell is sprawled across one of the couches in the lounge, his back to Jeff, ice pack resting across his knees. Mike is across from him. There are cards on the table. “Hey, Carter.” 

Jeff was just trying to sneak past to get to the kitchen. He doesn’t even know how Mitchell spots him. “Yeah?” 

Mitchell discards a card. “Who taught you how to skate?” 

Why the fuck does Mitchell even want to know? Jeff hesitates. “My dad,” he says eventually. 

“Oh, yeah?” Mitchell finally turns around to look at him. “He play?” 

Jeff searches his face for clues. Hints of a motive. But Mitchell just gazes back at him placidly. “Yeah,” Jeff says. “A year of junior. Before I was born.” 

Mitchell nods sagely before turning back to his game. “Cool.” 

Mike’s biting his lip, eyes firmly on the cards in front of him. 

 

 

 

 

At night, Jeff tries to imagine himself in a hundred different places. Forests. Deserts. The shores of a lake. Anywhere outside. Anywhere far away from here. But when he closes his eyes, it’s his imaginary house he travels to most frequently. And even if it doesn’t exist, he knows the floor plan so well he could draw it. Knows the trees outside in the yard. Imagines raking leaves. Shoveling snow. Sometimes he imagines the sound of children in the next room, although he can’t quite bring himself to give them faces. 

 

 

 

 

Mike’s smiling – just a little bit, at whatever it is Greene is telling him. From across the room, Jeff can’t hear what it is, but he can see the flicker of movement in Mike’s face. The crooked turn that says it’s genuine. Greene pats him on the back, and Mike ducks into Stevens’ office. 

Jeff hesitates, haunting the hallway. They have a line meeting. But it’ll be less awkward if Jeff waits for King and Stevens to show up before heading in. 

Greene glances over at him, face skeptical. “What are you waiting for?” 

Jeff shrugs, and Greene keeps giving him this _look_ until Jeff goes in. 

Mike glances quickly behind him when Jeff comes in, then just sinks down a little further in his chair, hands in his lap in front of him. The silence hangs. 

Mike’s foot starts to tap out a rhythm on the floor, as he shifts restlessly in his seat. Jeff has to keep his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him to ignore the sour twist of his stomach, the drumbeat of his pulse that seems to grow louder in the silence. 

Mike sighs. And this is the part where Jeff would usually kick his chair, tell him to settle, and he comes so close to it, so close his lips are already forming the words – 

Stevens finally appears, ushering King into the room in front of him. “Okay,” he says, taking his seat and pushing a tablet and a blank sheet of paper into the center of the desk. “Sorry we’re late. About the Red  & White defense – ” 

As Stevens speaks, Mike leans in, eyes following Stevens’ finger as traces plays unfolding on the screen in front of him. His hair is damp and curling. Eyes flickering rapidly to follow the movement. He rubs his jaw. What he will do next, Jeff knows from having watched Mike deep in thought any number of times, is start chewing on his knuckle. 

Mike’s hand goes to his mouth. 

“So as F1, Carter – Carter?” 

Jeff blinks, looks up. Stevens frowns at him, taps the piece of paper hard, which somehow in the time Jeff has been drifting, has become littered with Xs and dashed lines. “As F1 – no offense, but Lidstrom’s going to beat you 90% of the time, you just need to cut down on his options. Right?” 

Jeff nods. 

“Okay. Babcock has a certain way he likes to outlet, one low, two high – ” 

“Why?” Mike’s frowning down at the paper. He snags Stevens’ pencil, tracing a line up the far wall. “Why not like this?” 

Stevens looks amused. He reaches behind him, digging through the books on his shelf. He pulls down a faded blue volume, slides it across to Mike. “You want the history, read this.” 

Jeff watches Mike look thoughtfully down at the book, a sharp flare of irritation coloring his thoughts. 

It’s worse watching Mike actually read it – that evening Mike sits curled on the couch in the players’ lounge, finger moving along the page in front of him, keeping his place. Jeff watches him intently, carefully cataloging the way Mike frowns, the way he flips back to consult something on a previous page. Jeff feels overheated – restless and intensely jealous – although he’s not sure if it’s over the book itself or the fact that Stevens’ gave him the book, or the fact that Jeff would really just like Mike to put the stupid thing down and – 

Mike glances up, catches him staring. 

Jeff is the first to look away. 

 

 

 

 

The next time they play the Gold, it’s for a spot in the playoffs. 

They’re playing for the eighth seed. They’re either in it, or they’re done. 

The stands are a jostling, hissing mix of Black and Gold flags. Competing chants echo out over the ice, and just before the puck drops, Mike looks up and smiles. Mike loves this sort of shit. 

Mike wins the draw, and it’s chippy, back and forth hockey. Scoring chances thin on the ground. After a scoreless first, Sutter tells them, “I shouldn’t have to tell you how important this game is.” He turns to leave, but just before going, tosses out like it just occurred to him, “Oh. And you’re a better team than they are.” 

Like it was just a fact they should be made aware of. 

Dustin Brown’s mouth turns up at that. “We _are_ , actually, a better team than they are. So let’s show them that.” 

In the second, the tempo gets amped – the Gold is on a rush. Perry chips it ahead to Getzlaf. Getzlaf’s stick lights up just enough to stick the pass, he sends it back across to Perry, Quick’s caught out – 

Jeff is _sprinting_ to get back, but he’s not going to be fast enough – 

And then Mike’s _there._ Responsible, perfect, never-out-of-position _Mike._ Jeff is so torn between irritation and relief, it’s ridiculous. Mike dives in front of the shot. He absorbs it in the chest, drops to the ice – 

And bounces right back up again, kicking the puck away. “Mother _fucker_ ,” he snaps at Perry. “That hurt.” 

“Then just let it through next time!” Perry calls. 

“Ha!” Mike skates off for the change. 

But even coming off the ice, down the tunnel after the period, Jeff’s still stuck on the image of Mike dropping to the ice. Mike hustling and putting himself there – so fast, and so sure. Fearless, like nothing could touch him. 

Jeff heart is beating just a shade too fast. 

In the locker room, Mike immediately drops to the bench and starts hauling the jersey over his head. Jeff has to, he needs to – he drops to his knees in front of him, helps him pull it off. “Thanks,” Mike says, his voice muffled by the fabric. “My _shoulder_ – ” 

Mike’s face pops free and when he sees it’s Jeff in front of him, he starts hard. “Oh.” 

“Let me see.” Jeff’s got his hands on the straps of Mike’s chest protector. Slow, even pressure to undo the Velcro to minimize jostling. A gesture he’s done for Mike dozens of times. Maybe hundreds. “Arm,” Jeff murmurs. Mike holds out his arms so Jeff can tug his elbow guards off. First the left. Then the right. Just like always. The undershirt comes off last. Jeff runs his hands over the skin of Mike’s chest. 

Smooth. Unbroken. It hasn’t even really had time to bruise yet, just a red, angry mark just under his collarbone. 

“Carts?” 

Jeff glances over, and Greene tosses him an ice pack. Jeff presses it to Mike’s chest. 

Mike sucks in a quick breath. Jeff glances up. Mike’s eyes are huge looking back at him. “Sorry,” Jeff mutters. 

He stays crouched in front of Mike, holding the ice in place all through Stevens’ intermission speech. 

In the third, they might as well be the only team on the ice. They take the game 5-2. 

Playoffs. 

 

 

 

 

Jeff follows Mike back to his room. Mike steps aside wordlessly to let him in. There’s a familiar jar sitting on Mike’s dresser and while Mike strips off his shirt, Jeff opens it. The distinct, pungent smell of arnica fills the room. Mike sits on the bed, and Jeff kneels in front of him again. He begins by dabbing salve across the edges of the bruise on Mike’s chest. 

“Jeff – ” 

Jeff shakes his head. His hands move carefully, lightly. This is Mike’s chest. This, at the dip just above his breastbone is the scar from the 2008 playoffs. These are Mike’s shoulders. This divot is an old skate cut. This is where Mike gets a knot if he doesn’t stretch properly after games. Jeff scoots in closer. These are Mike’s ribs. This is the spot where he’s ticklish – 

Mike is right in front of him, but Jeff is having a hard time seeing him. Everything’s gone blurry. He rests his forehead against Mike’s thigh. His chest hurts. “I’m not sure I remember how to do this.” 

Mike’s hands come up to stroke the back of his head. “We’ll figure it out.” There’s a tremor in his hands, but his voice is firm. Steady. 

For a long time, Jeff blocks everything out but the feeling of Mike’s fingers trailing through his hair. 

A sharp rap on the door startles them both. 

Jeff unfolds himself carefully, gets up to answer it. 

Brown’s standing there. He doesn’t look at all surprised to see Jeff. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “Mandatory team meeting.” 

They gather at the bus of all places. And there’s an air of suppressed excitement, like they’re doing something illicit – kids sneaking out after curfew or staying up past lights out. Although dressed in their Black hoodies and sweats, they maybe look more like cat burglars than children. 

Cat burglars who are extremely bad at being quiet. Penner and Mitchell are at the back of the bus, laughing loudly, and an abbreviated peal of electronic music cuts through the chatter. The rookies are all up at the front, and as he files past, Jeff notices they’re all wearing crowns woven out of flowers. Just behind him, Mike laughs, “What – ” 

“Please,” Nolan says. “ _Please_ don’t ask.” 

Jeff settles into a seat. Mike hesitates in the aisle. Jeff tugs at him lightly, pulls him down beside him. “Where are we going?” Jeff asks him. 

Mike shrugs. 

Jeff twists around in his seat, so he can ask Kopi behind him. “Where are we going?” 

Kopi grins. “To build a bonfire.” 

The bus spills them out onto an empty stretch of beach. There’s a strong breeze coming in off the water, and Jeff pulls his hood up, tucks his hands deeper into the pocket of his hoodie against the chill. There’s already a group gathered in the sand, beams from their flashlights bobbing and dancing wildly. 

There’s a flare and a flash, someone lets out a _whoop_ , and for a second everyone’s faces are lit up as the pile of wood they’re standing around catches, and the flames leap high, burning off the accelerant. The fire steadies, and following the glow, the players drift down to join the coaching staff. Stevens is there, Sutter, Robinson the trainer, and strangest of all, Dean Lombardi, looking oddly underdressed in a sweatshirt and jeans. 

The fire gives off just enough light that Jeff can see the water, foamy and white where it runs in over the sand, before it retreats back and fades into darkness. 

“Jeff?” 

Jeff glances over. Mike nods up towards the fire, where the guys are congregating. “Lombardi’s calling us over.” 

Lombardi holds his hands up to the fire, warming them. He smiles. “I want to congratulate all of you. It’s your hard work and dedication that has brought us this far. You’re a very special group. Incredibly talented.” Jeff hasn’t seen a lot of Dean Lombardi, but he seems like a charming man. Polished and careful. He makes Jeff wary, and he shifts restlessly on the log they’re sitting on. Next to him, Mike’s shoulders are taut, like he’s waiting for the _but_ that’s inevitably coming. 

“You’re also special in that each and every one of you has had some sort of run-in with the Union.” The unsteady light of the fire is illuminating a lot of nervous smiles, uncertain expressions. Jeff looks to his left. Mike is gazing steadily across the fire, but he’s not looking at Lombardi. He’s watching John Stevens. Coach Stevens’ face is serious, composed. He doesn’t look surprised. 

“We live in an era, gentlemen, where even just acknowledging that out loud could get you arrested. Locked up with no recourse. So allow me to reinforce just how much I’m trusting you by sharing this.” Lombardi pauses, looking around the group. “And now, I’m going to ask you to trust me even more.” 

The fire snaps and Lombardi smiles. “I think this group is capable of great things. This is a team capable of going all the way through the playoffs, a team capable of winning the Stanley Cup. The ultimate achievement possible in our sport.” His expression goes abruptly somber. “But there’s not going to be any Stanley Cup awarded this year. No cup. No trophy. But if you trust me, if you follow me, and if our plan works, I can promise you, you will all finish this season as free men.” 

Mike sits back hard at that, swallowing. Jeff’s nails bite into his palms. 

“We are building towards something momentous, something of the greatest importance not just for you, or for hockey, but for _everyone_. We are all under the thumb of our oppressors, whether we appear to be or not.” Which, Jeff thinks cynically, Lombardi probably added because he doesn’t wear tags. No one’s tattooed him. “There are going to be things I can’t tell you – a lotof things I can’t tell you. But know that this is what we’re working towards.” 

He rubs his hands together, nods to one of the staff who begins passing out beer. “So tomorrow we march into playoffs as comrades in arms, but tonight, my friends, we celebrate all we’ve accomplished. All the miles we’ve walked together.” He holds his bottle aloft. “To you.”  
  


The Black erupts in raucous cheers. There’s music. Jeff catches sight of Dustin Brown picking his wife up, holding her aloft. But there’s something coiled tight in Jeff that refuses to unwind, something hot and anxious. Mike touches him lightly on the arm. Nods over towards where Stevens is still sitting, gazing into the fire, and gets up. Jeff follows, reluctant to let him out of sight. 

Stevens looks at them both, an eyebrow going up. “I would have thought you’d be the first to join in the fun.” 

Mike frowns and drops down onto the log next to him. “Do you trust him?” he asks flatly. 

Stevens looks across the fire, to where Lombardi’s chatting with a cluster of players. “He’s the best chance we have.” 

Mike shakes his head. “That’s not the same thing.” 

“I trust that he wants what I want.” There’s a small, bitter twist to Stevens’ mouth. “No more League. No more Union.” 

Jeff swallows. Mike’s expression is intent. “So how’s he going to do it? What’s his plan?” 

Stevens eyes him. “The less you know, the better. You’ll know what you need to know when you need it.” 

“I need to know what we’re throwing ourselves into. How are we supposed to help, if we don’t even know what the plan is _?_ ” When Stevens stays quiet, Mike shuffles in place, irritated. _“John.”_

And that makes Jeff glance over in surprise, but Stevens just leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. He shoots Mike another look, before turning and staring into the fire. “Lombardi’s trying to unite the efforts of the existing resistance groups. There are a lot of… dissatisfied people out there. The hard part is communication. Coordination.” 

“You’re going to use the game,” Jeff says. 

Stevens glances over in surprise, like he’d forgotten Jeff was there. “Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final. There’s no other single moment that more people will be watching the same thing. We’re going to use that moment.” Then he nods at them both and gets up, walking towards a cluster of staff. 

“We’re going to be part of a war.” Jeff frowns. It’s a strange phrase, a strange word in his mouth; he keeps turning it over in his head, uncertain how to feel. 

Mike looks at him, apprehensive. “If you don’t want to be a part of this… I could get us traded. Lombardi would do it. And Stevens would help us find a spot together someplace decent.” Mike swallows. “Or just you… if you don’t want…” He stops. “But, Jeff, if you want, we’ll go somewhere, and we’ll just play hockey, and I’ll take care of you, I swear. It won’t be like last time. I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

Even up close the light is so uncertain; it’s easy to imagine anything in the shadows. Jeff thinks of all the things he’s wanted, all the things he would have liked to have. A quiet life. A normal life. A house at the end of the street, surrounded by trees. A family inside it. 

Jeff toes a log further onto the fire, and it’s easy to pretend it’s all those dreams getting pushed onto the pyre as well. A cloud of sparks goes up – rising up and winking out of existence. 

Here is what he has instead: a body that aches. A broken foot. A scarred chest. The promise of more pain, more fear just in front of him. This is his world. And it hurts _so badly_ letting go of that dream, that escape, that life that’s never going to be. Burning up and disappearing like so much smoke. 

It’s too dark to see the ocean, but Jeff can hear it. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to play hockey anymore.” 

Mike goes still next to him. And he can’t look at Mike and not see all the rage and hatred his life’s shot through with. “I’m tired of getting hurt. I’m tired of hurting other people. I’m ready for this to be over.” 

He looks over. Mike is also real. Solid next to him. “So let’s help them burn it all down.” 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John has the time and opportunity to make one last trip out to the farm teams before playoffs eat all of his time and attention, and even then, the sun is starting to dip low on the horizon line by the time he is able to slip away. 

“John, wait!” 

John holds up a hand to shade his eyes. Richie grins and jogs the last few steps. “You didn’t think I’d let you go without me, did you?” 

Richie smiling. That’s a nice change. “How is it, Richards, that you always seem to know when I’m headed out?” 

Richie smirks at him, shrugging his shoulders dramatically, face all innocence. 

“Fine.” John rolls his eyes. “Keep your sources.” He pauses. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to come on this one.” 

Richie frowns. “Why not?” 

John gives him a pointed look. He hasn’t missed the fact that ever since Lombardi’s bonfire, Richie’s gained his shadow back, is no longer quite so hollow-eyed and depressed, and Carter mostly no longer jumps anytime anyone so much as looksat him. _Nobody’s_ missed that. 

The locker room has been able to let out one long, collective breath, making John’s life much, much easier. 

And as bittersweet as it is for John, he is also pleased because Richie is a friend and maybe a little more happiness in the world is a good thing. But John is not such a sentimental old fool as to admit that out loud. “How’s Carter?” 

“Jeff’s fine.” Richie says. “He’s with Kopi.” 

John raises an eyebrow. “Interesting choice of babysitter.” 

“He’s more comfortable with the imports,” Richie says, shrugging. “Anyway. He doesn’t need a _babysitter._ ” 

When Carter was first brought aboard, John had to attend actual meetingswhere whether Jeff Carter needed a babysitter was a honest to god item on the agenda _._ Still, he lets that go without comment. 

But Richie’s quieter than usual on the drive out. 

The scenery fades into darkness, and John has flipped the headlights on, when Richie announces firmly, “He is getting better.” Possibly to himself. 

It’s unclear if Richie means Jeff’s foot, or his play, or his spooky tendency to zone out and try to punch his teammates in the face. John nods anyway. “Okay.” 

“At least, I think he is,” Richie adds, sounding markedly less sure. “Actually I don’t know. He’s less – ” Richie spins a hand next to his head “ – spacey, but, he’s still so sad. I really don’t know what to do.” 

John glances over, and _Christ –_ at this rate he is forever going to associate vans with emotional trauma. He’s not sure what Richie wants from him. 

“He wouldn’t even look at me, before. He didn’t want me anywhere near him,” Richie says. Like there’s a chance John hadn’t noticed _that_. “Now we’re talking again. We’re not – ” Richie stops, colors slightly. He casts an uncertain look over at John. “I just want him to be happy.” 

Right. Apparently when Richie decides to lay it out there, he just _lays it all out there._ This is not my job, John tries to tell himself, but that thought’s cut off before it even really forms, because that’s bullshit. There’s _always_ been an aspect of this in coaching, especially now. And it’s not like Richie can just call up someone else. Call up his fatheror something. 

Richie looks nothing like the cocky kid John is used to seeing. Richie’s face is wide open, worried. And Richie’s just looking over at him like he thinks _John_ has all the answers. “Oh, Jesus.” John reaches over, gives his shoulder a shake. “Things are headed in the right direction, okay? Things are getting better. Be patient, and – let him know you’re there for him. Tell him you care about him.” 

Richie blushes. “He knows.” 

“Tell him anyway. Tell him until he gets tired of hearing about it.” John rubs a hand across his forehead. 

There’s a pause, and then Richie snorts. It’s almost a laugh. “This conversation is killing you, isn’t it?” 

“Maybe,” John acknowledges, not taking his eyes off the road. 

“It’s kind of killing me too.” Richie’s still blushing. “But – thanks.” 

 

 

 

 

One of the windows of the rink is lit with the low glow of a chemlight. “All right,” John says. “Let’s go.” But on the way in, John pauses in the doorway, stops so short Richie has to sidestep around him. 

There must be almost thirty people in the room. 

Richie looks around him into the room. “Holy shit.” 

One of the older guys steps forward, and even if he’s not wearing a ‘C’, he doesn’t need it. It’s clear he’s in charge. John tells him right away, “We can’t take everyone. Not tonight.” 

The Captain-in-exile nods, accepting that without argument. “How many?” 

“Eight,” John tells him, and it’s hard not to feel the weight of all those eyes on him. The disappointment and the hot edge of tension in the room. 

“Take the kids first,” the captain says. 

John assumes he means the rookies. The captain turns back to the group, murmuring to them, motioning some of them forward, but when he comes back to stand in front of John and Richie, the guys he’s brought with him – 

They _are_ kids. The oldest can’t be more than a day over sixteen. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Richie repeats. 

The boys hover around their captain, darting nervous glances at John and Richie but hanging back. “Go on,” their captain says. “Go with them. They’ll keep you safe.” He looks up, eyes boring into John’s. The look is a plea. _Please._ A warning. _You better_. 

The boys are quiet, piling into the van with huge eyes. John holds the door open, and Richie – 

Richie is staring at two of them. They’re standing there – waiting their turn to get in, one with flaming red hair, freckles and chapped lips, the other slight and dark – and their hands are clasped tightly together. 

The redhead notices Richie staring and he glares back, lifts his chin ever so slightly. 

“John,” Richie says, when he climbs into the van’s front seat, his voice somber and not quite steady. “John, we have to help all of them. We can’t leave the rest. We _can’t.”_

They have playoffs. They have to fly to fucking _Vancouver_. “I’ll talk to Nicole,” John says. 

 

 

 

 

There are simply not enough hours. 

John is reasonably sure he hasn’t slept since Friday. In the run up to playoffs, Lombardi has been increasingly absent, a harried, gaunt figure when he is around, and the trickle down has been palpable. Sutter’s eyes are sunken. Impressively, he grows even quieter, vaguer in his pronouncements. He has meetings that run late into the night with Lombardi. In response, John takes over morning skate. He runs the team through drills and stretches, not so much because they need direction in how to train, how to be ready, but more to keep the routine constant. 

He soothes nerves and quells arguments. Doles out instructions and praise. Positions food in front of them in regular intervals. Enforces curfew. In short, he coaches. 

Every night after curfew, he meets with Nicole Brown. “After we win,” she says, “the whole city will be in chaos. With any luck, the whole _country_ will be in chaos. We have to plan for that. We have to be ready.” Her kitchen is ground zero for planning: endless lists tacked to the walls. Water sources. Generator locations. John pushes a piece of children’s artwork out of the way to reveal another: weapons cache locations. 

“Are you doing alright with this?” he asks. 

“John, I have a husband who plays hockey, three boys under the age of six, and a full time job. My great, great, great granddaddy crossed the Delaware with General George Washington. I could plan a revolution in three hours, have it color-coded, and pack snacks. Trust me. I got this.” She holds her fist out across the table and Quick’s wife, Jaclyn, bumps it. 

“ _We_ got this,” Jaclyn amends. 

 

 

 

 

GAME 1, the BLUE & GREEN 

Mitchell slants his eyes at John as he hops the boards, looking frustrated. Richie is a half-stride behind him, stopping short and hopping up to straddle the divider. “What am I supposed to do out there?” He asks, before Sutter can get a word out. “They’re pushing us around – and they’re talking _a lot_ of shit.” 

Sutter has called them in for a time-out because they’re skating fast but disorganized, and the pushing has gotten a lot rougher. 

Before the game, the instructions were: _This is playoffs. No fighting._

__

“No fighting,” John had taken Richie aside just hours beforehand. “No fighting, no fighting, no fighting.” 

“I _get it_ ,” Richie had said. 

But now, “It’s just going to get worse.” Richie scowls. And his eyes dart over to Carter – because the Blue & Green can shove Richie around all day without complaint, but god forbid they touch _Carter._

Sutter’s watching this exchange as well. “New line. Penner, you’re now on Richards’ left.” 

Penner blinks. “Sure,” he says, easy. 

John frowns as they skate off, because he wouldn’t have said Penner was known for his _calming influence_. “You realize you just made a line of two powder kegs and one bundle of kindling, right?” 

Sutter tips his head thoughtfully. “I have a feeling. Oh – ” His eyes are tracking the action on the ice. “Watch this. This is going to be good.” 

Richie it slips up the middle, snarling as he goes – gets off a quick snap shot – and Penner tips it home. 

“See, John? Sometimes these things are going to happen. You have to _use_ that energy.” 

The Black take the game 4-2. 

 

 

 

 

Game 2, the third – the Black has put two in to the Blue & Green’s one. John’s happy they’re getting the chance to change; they need fresh legs after a long, messy shift. “Mitchell, Voynov. Go.” 

Coming back to the bench, Doughty has to edge around Burrows, who comes skating down the Black’s bench, flipping off Richie and calling out to Bieksa as he goes, “Oh – look at that, the lovebirds reunited. Doesn’t that warm your heart?” 

_“Absolutely,_ ” Bieksa answers. “I was getting really _sick_ of all those messages.” 

Burrows laughs, then singsongs, “Has anyone seen Jeff Carter? I’m trying to find Jeff Carter. I _need_ to find Jeff Carter.” He drags a toe, slowing as he goes past. 

On the bench, Richie stares back at them, furious. Carter has one hand on his shoulder, but Richie’s practically vibrating. 

“Where _is_ he? I can’t _find_ him.” Bieksa slings an arm across Burrows’ shoulders. “That was pretty pathetic, Richie. You really couldn’t find anyone local to suck your dick?” The ref’s whistle finally calls them away. 

“Richards,” John says, but Richie isn’t looking at him. _“Richie.”_

Richie finally blinks and looks up. “No stupid penalties,” John says. 

Richie grinds his jaw. 

“I mean…” Doughty pauses thoughtfully. “You did get him back, right? So seems like you’ve got a lot more to happy about than not.” 

“You score a goal, I’ll trip him for you,” Martinez adds, like John’s not _right there_. John slaps the back of his helmet. 

Richie cracks a grin, but it’s Carter who’s watching the exchange most closely. It’s Carter who laughs. “Yeah, Richie. Lighten up.” 

Richie looks over at Carter, astonished. “Close your mouth, Richie,” Carter says. “There’s pucks flying around here.” 

 

 

 

 

They finish the series in Vancouver in five games. They have six days before they take on the Blue. John gives them the first day off. 

The second day, he gets everyone back out on the ice. “Alright, boys. On the line.” 

“Ugh,” Penner moans. “You have gotto be kidding me. Coach, we _won_.” 

John raises an eyebrow. “Six days is a long time to carry momentum. We’re going to be just as fit, just as ready heading into St. Louis as we were going into the Blue  & Green, got it?” He taps Penner’s shin pad with his stick. “Light skate. Suicides at 80% then we practice breakouts because you know Hitchcock is going to have the neutral zone locked down. Unless you object, Mr. Penner?” 

Penner looks down. “No, sir.” 

“Blue line, down and back.” John blows his whistle. 

Afterwards, the guys have hardly started back down the tunnel before Aaron’s out on the ice, starting to gather up stray pucks. He’s easy to spot – hair like a sunset. And if anybody’s noticed the sudden uptick in the number of kids running around the ice center, helping out with odd jobs, they haven’t said anything. At least not to John. 

Carter’s still at the far end of the rink, taking a few last practice shots on Bernier. John watches him, the careful way he lines each one up, the way he shifts his weight. He leans carefully, deliberately onto his right skate, then off again. Then again, faster. 

John’s not the only one watching – Aaron drifts to a stop, carton hanging loose and forgotten in his fingers, and he’s watching Carter closely, like he’s trying to memorize each individual aspect of the movement. Carter’s stick cracks against the next puck, and Aaron finally tears himself away and skates over to the bench, dumping the carton of pucks into the waiting travel bag. 

He’s not often without his shadow. John sets his clipboard down. “Where’s David?” 

Aaron glances over at him, and he’s smiling a small private grin. “Davie? He’s with Mrs. Brown. He’s – ” 

Aaron’s interrupted by Richie coming back up the tunnel and leaning out over the ice. He nods absently at Aaron. “Hey, kid.” He cups his hands around his mouth. “Carts! Come on, leave Bernie alone, he’s tired!” 

Carter waves at him dismissively, but after he sends the next one in, he skates up to Bernier, bumps his glove to the goalie’s and skates up ice. He slows to a halt in front of the bench where they’re gathered, nods at John and Richie. 

“Are you done?” Aaron asks him. He has that unconscious rudeness common to teenagers, and it takes everything in John not to reprimand him. _Not my son_ , he reminds himself. 

Carter frowns, but he nods, and Aaron sprints for the far end of the ice, swinging the carton side to side with each stride. Carter watches his retreating back closely, and the frown on his face is deepening. “Coach,” he says carefully. “That kid’s not wearing any tags.” 

Richie looks up sharply, squinting after Aaron, then looks to John. John rubs his forehead, and gives himself a second to glare back at Richie. And like so many things, this is John’s problem because there is simply _no one else’s_ problem for it to be. He sighs and pushes off towards center ice. He calls out, “Aaron,” and gestures for the boy. 

Aaron peels off from gathering pucks, skates up to him. “Yeah, Coach?” 

Aaron insists he’s sixteen. John doesn’t believe it for a minute. His upturned face is smooth, unworried. “Your collar,” John tells him. 

Aaron frowns at him in confusion. “What?” 

John reaches out, tugs the neck of his sweater up so it covers more of his neck. “Your collar. You need to be more careful.” 

Aaron ducks his head, tugging the collar of his sweater the rest of the way into place on his own. “Sorry.” He glances over at where Carter and Richie are still standing. “Coach, can I stay on the ice and skate? Until the Zamboni comes on? Please?” 

He’s looking up at John, bright and hopeful. The tag issue clearly already dismissed from his mind, and John wants to shakehim, to drive home just how bad it would be if someone saw _._ If they got caught. 

Aaron’s just watching him. Waiting. Eyes clear and unworried. 

In the end, John just sighs. “Yeah. You can skate. Just finish putting the pucks away, first.” 

Aaron grins broadly. “Thanks, Coach.” 

At the bench, Carter is still frowning. “He’s one of the kids you took off the farm team.” He looks between John and Richie, but it’s clear it’s not really a question. Richie scrubs the back of his neck and shrugs. 

Richie is _worthless_. 

John opens his mouth, but Carter cuts him off. “You brought them back _here?_ To the ice center?” 

“Where was I supposed to take them?” John’s getting a little irritated, frankly. There’s only so many miracles he can pull off, any given day. “They can’t all stay at the Brown’s.” 

“Stay at the – ” Carter stops and shakes his head in disbelief. “They don’t have _tags_ , Coach. Anybodycould walk in here and – ” 

“Where were they supposed to go?” John repeats. If Carter’s got any great ideas, he’s all ears _._

__

Carter folds his arms across his chest. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but he glances up, out over the ice and he stops short. 

John turns around to follow his gaze. Aaron is bent, an imaginary stick gripped in his hands. He executes a perfect mimic of Carter’s earlier shot. 

Carter looks very much like he can’t decide if he wants to smile or not. Richie elbows him gently. “Looks like you’ve got a fan.” 

Carter’s glare towards Richie is vicious. “It’s still not okay,” he grumbles. Then he casts a sharp look at John. “At least get him some fake ones, or something.” 

John bites back a dozen retorts. They’re in the middle of a playoff run. One quarter of the way towards burning down the whole goddamn government. _Fake tags,_ John adds it to his list. 

 

 

 

 

They sweep St. Louis in four. 

They finish at home, in the Black. 

Lombardi is all broad grins and humble statements of pious gratitude in front of the cameras, but John can see the circles under his eyes. The strain in the set of his shoulders. The list of things Johnhas to do is overwhelming enough as it is; it’s hard to imagine all the balls Lombardi’s keeping in the air. 

And now – of course – there’s _this_. A celebratory dinner and open skate. Strangers wandering in off the street, traipsing about John’s arena. Sliding gracelessly across John’s ice. Most of them are excited fans, eager for the chance to speak with Brown. To shake Lombardi’s hand. Some of them are undoubtedly Union – taking advantage of the open doors to wander Lombardi’s sanctum unchecked. 

Thoseare the ones making John’s skin crawl. The reason he’s on a constant, circuitous loop of the roped-off hallways, the private areas of the ice center. Eventually, John is going to have to put in an appearance at the stage set up at the end of the rink. “This is fun, John,” Lombardi had said. “Mandatory fun. _Smile._ ” 

  
But he can get away with another few minutes of anonymity. So for now he walks off his nerves in the ice center’s back tunnels and hallways. And he does it with company. 

“Whyare we walking all over, again?” Aaron is walking awkwardly. It takes John a second to realize he’s deliberately stepping on every third floor tile. 

_Because I am literally terrified of what you would do unsupervised._ “We’re making sure that no one’s back here that’s not supposed to be back here.” 

Aaron’s eyes brighten. “If we find someone, are you going to beat them up?” 

_Dear Anna, Please grant me the patience to accept the things I cannot change._ “No.” 

A pause. “If we find someone, can _I_ beat them up?” 

John has to turn a chuckle into a cough. _“No.”_

Going past the observation lounge, they hear laughter. John rounds the corner and pauses. Carter and Richie are shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the ice. 

John clears his throat. 

Richie jumps and glances up, his face goes immediately sheepish. He and Carter are both supposed to be out there – smiling and shaking hands. Carter moves his hand from where it was resting at the small of Richie’s back and takes a step away. “Tired of glad-handing?” John asks. 

“I don’t like the crowds.” There’s something guarded in Carter’s voice. 

Technically, John should be kicking them out. Sending them out to the ice to make pleasant conversation with fans and supporters. “Come on,” John says finally. “Want to see an even better view?” 

Aaron walks next to him at first, but soon falls back several paces to walk with Carter and Richie. Out of the corner of his eye, John can see him shooting shy glances up at Carter, Carter’s uncertain expression fixed on the floor in front of him. “Do you practice a lot?” Aaron asks. 

There’s a snort, and Richie quickens his step, catching up to walk with John. He glances back over his shoulder and grins. “Carts used to take care of all the rookies, back in the Orange.” 

“Yeah,” John says. “I remember that.” 

Richie shoots another thoughtful look back at the pair of them. “He doesn’t really, here. But maybe – ” 

John shrugs. “There are a lot of good mentors, here in the Black. He doesn’t need to.” 

Richie _hmms_ thoughtfully at that. Tucks his hands into his pockets. “Do you think Brown is a better Captain than I was?” 

John glances over, sharp. Richie’s expression is uncertain. “Yes. In some ways,” John answers honestly. Richie worries at his lip. “You’re a better hockey player,” John adds. 

Richie doesn’t answer. And in the quiet, John can hear Aaron prattling on at Carter. “Debski says I need to practice. Debski says I either need to get a lot bigger, or, if I don’t want to have effed up hands and a soft head, that I need to get good at putting the puck in the net.” 

There’s a pause before Carter asks, “Debski?” 

“Debski’s the Captain of the Falcons, where I was before. Debski’s the best Captain in all of hockey. He was drafted by the Black  & Gold. In the third round. He played seven games with them in 2002.” 

John stops them in front of locked door, and sliding his access card, calls over his shoulder. “You’re not going to get much love name-dropping Pittsburgh in this crowd.” Aaron flushes and falls silent. 

Behind the door is a stairwell, and John starts them up. The stairs take them up to the catwalk that stretches across the rink, far above the ice. Aaron takes off at a sprint, boosts himself up to hang over the railing. John’s heart leaps into his throat. “Aaron!” 

Aaron looks back at him, perched and leaning. “What?” 

_“Get,”_ John says, very deliberately calm, “ _down.”_

Aaron drops down onto the grating, sheepish. From here, the skaters are just tiny figures moving over the ice. “This is where the banner would hang,” John says. “If there were a banner this year.” 

They all look at him, solemn. John drops his eyes down to the ice. After a second, Richie points. “Dewey,” he says, indicating a figure in black, cutting neatly around the faltering skaters on the ice. 

Carter smiles. “Look, there’s Quickie with his kid.” Quickie cuts a slow, cautious path around the rink, daughter in his arms. 

Aaron squats down and presses his face to the grating. “There’s Davie.” 

“Which one?” Carter leans down next to him. 

Aaron points. “There.” He has a small, absent smile on his face. 

Carter looks skeptical. 

Aaron glances over at him and scowls. “I don’t care what you think, Davie is my friend. Debski said I could be friends with him, and anyone who had a problem with it could fuck right off.” He pauses, adding reluctantly, “And he said I wasn’t supposed to use language like that unless it was on the ice and only if it was called for.” 

“Uh.” Carter blinks, obviously taken aback. “I just – he’s not much of a skater.” 

“Oh.” Aaron settles. “No. He’s _terrible._ I don’t know why the Stampers took him at all.” 

Richie and John exchange a glance. “The Stampers?” 

Aaron claps his feet against the metal. “You know? The soldiers? We call them Stampers because of the sound their boots make. They’re the ones who come to the Nursies and pick who goes to play hockey. I got picked because I was the fastest skater in my whole Nursie.” A proud smile. “But I don’t know why they took Davie. He can’t skate _at all_.” His eyes follow the figure making slow, unsteady progress across the ice. “He has a really pretty voice, though. He always gets picked to sing the anthem.” 

Richie is staring hard at the back of Aaron’s head, but it’s Carter who starts to carefully ask, “Aaron – ” 

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. 

There’s movement down at the far end of the rink, and then soldiers are sweeping in, trailed by a Morality Officer. Below, John can see Lombardi stand. There’s a brief hush, and the steady clank and stamp of boots echoes all the way up to the rafters. Then there’s indistinct shouting below and the skaters start filing off the ice. As they come off, the Morality Officer starts to point. And then they start grabbing kids. First the blond kid, who’s hardly said two words since John and Richie pulled him off his team. 

Then the soldiers grab Davie. 

Aaron is up like a shot, bolting for the door to the stairs. John doesn’t even have time to yell after him, before Carter is grabbing him, holding him fast. Aaron kicks out wildly, thrashing in his grip. He starts to yell, and Carter claps a hand over his mouth, sliding to floor, his back to the railing. Aaron twists and claws, but Carter holds him fast – and then Richie is there, helping to wrestle the both of them further back into the shadows, out of sight. 

The four of them lie very, very still. For what feels like forever. Until the last ringing echo of the boots has gone quiet, and the Morality Officer has swept out of sight. 

Aaron’s face is red. Wet. When Carter lets go, he spins away from him. He only makes a couple steps before he just _drops_. A puppet with his strings cut, curling into a miserable ball. He hides his face in his arms, shoulders shaking. 

John needs to get downstairs, but _Aaron_ is panicking, and now also maybe _Carter_ , who is breathing fast and shallow, and he jumps when Richie sets a hand on his back. 

“Jeff?” Richie asks softly. 

Carter shakes his head and then he’s dropping down to the floor, pulling Aaron against him. Aaron shoves at him blindly. 

“Carter,” John tries, but they’re both ignoring him. 

Carter pulls at him again. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay. We’ll get him back.” 

John goes all cold inside, the hair on the back of his neck rising, because it’s an enormous promise. And it’s clear from Carter’s tone that he means it _._ Aaron’s arms twine around him. Carter presses his face in tight to Aaron’s neck, folding him in close. “We’ll get him back.” 

 

 

 

 

John and Richie are waiting in the common room when Brown comes out of the closed-door meeting with Lombardi. “I’d make myself scarce, if I was you,” he says darkly. “He’s not happy with either of you.” 

“What the fuck even happened?” Richie asks. 

Brown shrugs. “Someone got tipped off about something. The M.O. had a list. He snagged four of the kids. All with fake tags.” 

John’s chest is cold. Tight. He clears his throat. “What does this mean for – for our playoff plans?” 

Brown’s mouth twists. “We’re lucky it happened on the day it did. Lombardi told them the kids were there as part of the open skate.” He pauses. “ _Not_ with the Black.” 

“Did they buy that?” Richie’s pulling at his cuffs. 

“They will until they talk to one of the kids.” Brown is scowling at John. 

John frowns back. “They’re good kids. They’re not stupid.” 

“They’re _kids_.” Brown looks furious. “And who knows what the Union’s willing to do to make them talk.” 

John’s stomach twists. 

“We have to go get them.” There’s a panicky undertone to Richie’s voice. “We have to get them back. We need – ” 

“ _I_ need you to be quiet.” Brown brings his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose hard, eyes squeezing shut. “And I need my fucking wife. Christ, she’s better at planning this sort of thing.” 

“Quick’s on his way back from there now,” John offers. Brown cracks one eye to glare at him. 

There are footsteps in the hall, and then Greene is walking quickly across the room. He puts one hand on Brown’s shoulder, leans in to whisper in his ear. The lines in Brown’s forehead deepen, and John’s sense of dread is getting stronger. This is bad. This is very bad. 

Greene pulls back and starts to leave. “No – stay.” Brown gestures at the table “Quickie’ll be back soon and we may as well all talk about this at once.” 

The wait for Quick to get back is a very quiet one. 

When Quick finally does get back, he lets himself into the room and looks around, eyebrows going up. “Fuck,” he says. 

Brown rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Yeah. Fuck.” 

Quickie pulls a chair up to the table. “Okay. Nicole says nothing’s hit the wires yet. If the local M.O.’s gotten anything out of them, he hasn’t told the league yet.” 

“That just means he hasn’t gotten around to it yet, not that he’s not going to,” Brown grumbles. 

Richie leans in. “So we go, and we get them back before he has a chance to.” 

Brown is frowning, but he tips his head. “That may actually be our best bet. So where – ” 

The door opens again, and this time it’s Carter slipping into the room. “Sorry.” He pulls up a seat next to Richie. 

“How’s Aaron?” John asks. 

Carter shrugs. “Asleep.” He looks exhausted. 

Quick coughs. “Nicole said your people had eyes on the convoy?” He’s looking at Greene. 

Greene looks pissed. He raises his eyebrows, looks pointedly at Richie, and Carter, and John. 

Brown sighs. “Come on, Greener.” 

Greene gives them one last, skeptical look. “Yeah. They took them straight from the rink to the Correctional Factory on Dawson.” 

John’s head is throbbing. He drops his forehead down into his hand. 

Brown seems to feel the same way. “Fuck.” 

Greene shrugs. “Could be worse. Those places aren’t exactly fortresses.” 

“Fortresses, no.” Brown leans back in his seat. “But they are mazes. Fuck, back East, Quickie and I once lost half a squad trying to raid one of those.” 

“Okay, okay.” Quick lays his hands on the table. “But they’re all laid out essentially the same. And at least we have pictures of the inside of one – ” 

“Blurry, _old_ pictures,” Brown corrects. 

Quickie shrugs. “So we go with what we got. You and me, a couple of guys – we’ll go in, get out. It’ll be just like old times.” 

Brown smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a suicide mission, Quickie. You aren’t going anywhere.” 

“Brown – ” 

“Shouldn’t have made yourself so indispensable in net.” 

Quick folds his arms against his chest. 

Carter clears his throat. 

All five of them look at him. Carter shrinks under their gaze, hesitates. 

“No.” Richie breaks the silence. “No, absolutely not.” 

Carter darts a look at Richie, and then cautiously around the rest of the room. “I could take you in. I know the layout.” 

Richie scowls. _“Jeff.”_ He’d look angry to anybody else, but by this point John knows what Richie sounds like when he’s terrified. 

Brown just looks flatly skeptical. “What do you mean, you know the layout?” 

Carter shrugs. “I grew up in one. I mean, I lived in one from the time I was eight until I was fifteen.” He pauses. “Until I left for junior hockey. Coach can tell you.” He looks at John. 

John could. It’s all right there in Carter’s paperwork. Neatly written out under _home address._ The admission feels like a violation of privacy, but it’s Carter that’s looking at him, steady and serious. John nods. 

  
Richie’s mouth sets into a line. “You have no business being part of some kind of raid _– ”_

“Richie’s actually right about that.” Greene rubs his chin. “You ever even fired a gun?” 

“No,” Carter admits. 

Greene looks significantly at Brown and Quick. 

“No.” Carter’s louder this time. “But I won’t need to. Not if I can get us in, and around. And if Coach can work the locks.” 

John looks up in surprise. Carter shrugs. “The locks look just like this one.” He flicks the clasp on his PerT chain. “And you can work those, right?” 

They’re all of them looking at John. At the very least, John thinks, this is going to be interesting. “Yes.” 

“So you and me, we’ll go in.” Carter traces an imaginary route on the table in front of him. His eyes are clear when he looks up. “And we’ll get them out.” 

John can’t answer before Richie’s breaking in. “No – you want – _no._ ” He shakes his head, looking increasingly panicked. “You can’t _– ”_

“Mike.” Carter sets a hand on top of Richie’s. Richie cuts off, as swift and complete as if the volume had been dropped. The room goes very quiet. Very still. 

There’s nothing but the rough sound of Richie breathing, and John’s chest twists up tight because it’s all right there, on his face. “I _just_ got you back,” he says. He’s looking at Carter like there’s no one else in the room. John looks away; Brown and Quick are studying the table top, eyes averted as well. Richie’s voice is reedy, thin. “You’re not going without me.” 

“Ricky – ” Brownie starts to object. 

“No,” John says. “No, that’s great. If we get caught we’ll just tell them we’re spies from the Orange.” And God, wouldn’t that be the perfect revenge on Holmgren? 

Brown, Quick, and Greene all exchange glances, some sort of silent exchange taking place. “My people will be keeping an eye on you,” Greene says, finally. And whether or not it’s supposed to be comforting, John’s not sure. 

 

 

 

 

“Just do what I do. And stay quiet,” Carter says. “Getting in will be the easy part.” 

And it is. The Correctional Factory stretches the length of the city block. John shades his eyes, peers up at the four gray towers extending up into the sky. Endless cement walls stretch around their base, a solid, featureless gray, unbroken except for the entrance gates, where there’s a steady stream of traffic in and out. Carter takes them right up to a line of subdued people waiting at the guard booth, under the sign marker VISITORS. When they gets to the front of the line, the guard holds his hand out and Carter snaps one of his PerTs off, sets it in his palm. 

The guard’s hand hovers over the tablet. “Who are you here to see?” 

Carter coughs lightly. “Does Rosie still work here?” 

The guard looks up, for the first time his face shows a hint of expression: an eyebrow goes up, the barest hint of a smile. He nods, just the tiniest bit. “All three of you?” 

Carter nods. 

The guard writes a number on a piece of paper and slides it towards Carter. Glancing at it, Carter digs his wallet out of his pants and starts pulling out bills. He hands them over to the guard without a word. 

“Hey,” the guard yells over his shoulder at the other man working the booth. “Cover for me for a minute.” He leads them in through a tunnel, flashing his badge absently at a card reader. The tunnel is long and empty, featureless but for another set of doors at the far end. The guard waves them through these, as well. Past the second set of doors is a hallway awash in fluorescent light, lined with unmarked and identical doorways. John shivers. 

Carter just follows the guard, silent and expressionless. John tucks away the panic induced by the sight of the doorway growing smaller behind them, and locks his eyes on the back of Carter’s head. Carter said he could get them in. He said he could lead them out. 

They stop eventually in front of a doorway. As far as John can tell, there’s nothing unique about it – just another door, identical to all the rest. The guard slides his badge again, and they’re in. He holds the door open for them to enter, throws a casual nod at Carter. “Wait.” And leaves. 

Inside there’s a bed and desk. Nothing else. “Carts?” Richie’s voice is very small. Filled with all the anxiety John’s not letting himself acknowledge. Carter reaches out and rubs his hand over Richie’s arm, and there’s no missing how Richie presses back into the touch. 

John blinks. “Who’s Rosie?” 

Carter smiles at him, sly. “There’s always a girl,” he says. “She’s always called Rosie.” 

Rosie shows up a few minutes later: a woman in the plain worker’s uniform. Hair tied back and lines around her eyes. She looks them up and down, brusque and businesslike. “One at a time or not at all. And I don’t care what you paid Sam. You gotta pay me too.” She looks from Richie to Carter to John. 

John’s too nervous to be surprised. Nothing would be a surprise at this point. John looks at Carter. 

Carter shoots him an embarrassed look before turning to face her. He clears his throat. “We’re looking for a group of boys. They would have arrived yesterday.” 

Her face twists unpleasantly. “I’m not here to help you find _kids_ to fuck. You can either fuck me or go home.” 

“We don’t want to fuck them,” Carter offers carefully. “We’re just trying to find them.” He bites his lip. “To talk to them.” 

She studies him, eyes narrowed. John’s heart is thudding up in his throat, and for a minute, it’s the only thing he can hear. Finally, she holds out her hand, palm up. 

Carter drops money into it, and Rosie looks them over before saying, “Some kids did come in yesterday. They’re in B Tower.” 

“What floor?” 

She blinks at him. Some kind of realization is dawning across her face. “Ten. But you won’t – ” 

Carter cuts her off. “Thanks.” And then there’s an awkward pause, before Carter starts shelling more money out of his wallet. Rosie reaches out for it slowly, still squinting at him. Carter looks pointedly at Richie and John, and jerks his head towards the door. 

John follows him out. Carter stops just outside the doorway. He looks left, then right, then straight at the wall, eyes vaguely unfocused. Lost in thought. And just when John’s convinced this has been one, enormous mistake, he turns decisively to the left and starts walking. Richie falls in a half-step behind him, “Carts.” 

“These places are all laid out the same,” Carter says absently, almost to himself. He glances over his shoulder at Richie and John. “Because they transfer the guards around all the time? Don’t want anybody getting too familiar. But stuff like – ” He blushes a little and nods back the way they came, back towards Rosie. “Stuff like that still happens all the time.” 

John has to pause mentally for a full second because Carter can’t say _prostitute._ Carter is merrily leading them through the bowels of a _prison_ and he can’t say _prostitute_ without blushing. John shakes his head and drags his attention back because Carter is still talking. 

“There are four towers – A, B, C, and D.” They’re coming up on a window, and Carter points out. Through the glass John can see a tall building on the other side of the courtyard. “We’re in one of the wings that connects two towers. We’re either in A-D or C-D, I won’t be able to tell until we get to the end of the hall.” He nods to himself. “It’s designed so you can’t get anywhere fast. And not all the levels connect. Not all the hallways go through.” He swallows. 

“Are you okay?” Richie’s voice is low. 

Carter pauses. “Yeah. Yeah, Mike.” He smiles, but it’s thin and strained. When they make it to the end of the hallway, he looks around. “We’re at the edge of C tower.” A pause. “Fifth floor.” 

John’s looking, but there are no indicators. No signs or lettering on the walls. Nothing but endless gray concrete. “How can you tell?” he asks. 

Carter points. “There are three doorways here, at right angles. That only happens on odd floors in Towers B and C. There are no windows on floors 1 and 3 in those towers, and we didn’t come far enough to be any higher than the fifth floor. And there are only small rooms like the one we were in with Rosie in the A-D or C-D corridors. So, C Tower. Fifth floor.” He points down the hallway they came. “That way to D Tower.” And then ahead. “B Tower is that way.” 

“Holy _shit,_ Jeff,” Richie says. 

Carter grins uncertainly. “We used to make a game of it. Blindfolding each other and trying to find our way back to base. When there were other kids there, I mean.” He starts walking again. “Come on – the fifth floor B-C doesn’t go though, so we have to climb.” 

John follows his lead, falling silent when they pass other people in the halls, his pulse thudding when guards walk by. But they’re ignored. When they’re the only people in the hall, Carter starts talking again. “Getting out is so hard, and all the doorways are monitored, that they don’t bother much with the people inside,” Carter says, low. “There won’t be any more tracking doorways until we start working our way out. As long as we look like we know where we’re going we’ll be fine.” 

He’s hesitant at first, but the words start coming faster, more and more anecdotes as he goes along. He points to the crawl spaces under the stairs, “We had those, too. I used to hide there when my mom was pissed at me.” After a guard walks by, “The ones with the soft hats and the batons – they get paid the least. Hardly anything. They’re the ones you can bribe. The ones with the helmets and Tasers – they’re trouble.” 

They drop down a half flight of steps. “This isn’t the seventh floor, but it isn’t really the sixth either. But if it’s like ours was, then – yes.” The hallway bends and suddenly they’re standing in front of a large window, looking out over a central courtyard. Carter’s looking down at the gray expanse, expression gone spacey and distant. 

“Jeff?” Richie has his hand on Carter’s arm. 

Carter blinks. He gestures at the courtyard. “That’s where the rink was, in ours. Where I skated. There wasn’t a lot to do, so I skated a lot.” He points just beyond. “There’s where the Chapel is. There’s A Tower, that’s mostly the factory floor – for whatever they make here. Over there, that’s D – more work space. You can’t really see C from here, but that’s where the guards live, the kitchen, the infirmary, and a bunch of random stuff. And you can just see the edge of B. That’s the residence tower.” 

There’s something almost wistful in his face. “Were there a lot of other kids?” John asks. 

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “People came and left a lot. None of the other kids were there the whole time I was – ” His head tips, thoughtful. “Seven years? Almost eight? Sometimes when there were enough of us, one of the M.O.s would hold classes in the Chapel. They gave me my School Certificate, anyway. Come on. We should keep moving.” 

They’re climbing past another window, another quick glimpse of the courtyard. John asks, “How’d you end up playing for Soo City?” 

“Oh.” Carter pauses. “Some of the guards brought their kids in to skate and I played pick-up games with them. Then, when I got good enough I played in the guards’ games when they were short a guy. One day, one of the guards asked me if I wanted to play with a better team, and I said yes.” He shakes his head. “He put me in a car. I thought we were going to be gone for a couple hours – _maybe_ the afternoon. Instead, he drove me to Soo City and dropped me off with the Greyhounds. He probably thought he was doing me a favor, but I was _screaming_ by the time we made it to the Soo. I tried to jump out of the car, but he wouldn’t let me.” 

Carter drops his eyes. “Anyway, I played with them for three years and then, you know, The Draft.” 

Twice they past contingents of guards walking past, faces invisible behind their visors, Tasers swinging by their sides. Carter keeps his head down, keeps walking. John follows suit. There are no windows in this section, just unending gray cement blocks. It’s enough to give the illusion that no time – no space – is passing, that they’re just treadmilling through an endless hall. But Carter finally ducks up one last set of stairs, stops in front of a doorway. “We’re here.” He turns around. 

Richie looks like he’s coming out of a fugue too. “You’re sure?” 

Carter grins a little. “Yes. Also, look.” He points up, and above the doorway, tiny and hidden, scratched into the brick, is written _10B._ “We used to do that, too.” 

John’s palms are damp. Carter pushes open the door. 

It’s just barracks. Windowless, but otherwise identical to any number of minor league housing arrangements John has seen. They’re nearly empty, but there are a few guys scattered throughout the room, mostly sleeping. The ones who are awake watch them with careful, guarded expressions. 

And then there they are: Jacob and Davie, Mark and Pat. All sitting together on one bed, trading cards back and forth. Jacob glances up and does a double take. Then he punches Davie in the arm. “There, see? I told you.” 

John’s trying to swallow away the lump in his throat. “Come on,” he manages. “We’re leaving.” They slide off the bed, lining up in front of John. John glances over to Carter – 

Carter is toe to toe with a very large man, who is squinting at him ominously. Richie notices at the same time John does, and edges over immediately to stand at Carter’s shoulder. Carter puts a hand out, as if to keep him back. “We’re taking them home,” he says. 

“It’s okay,” Jacob says. “They really are.” 

The man glances at him. And steps aside. 

John swallows. 

Carter leads them out. They walk quickly. Quiet. Carter stops giving anecdotes, and John presumes they’re all focused on the same thing: getting _out_. Eventually, Carter waves him up to join him. “I told Greener we’d come out the tunnel that exits behind B Tower. It’s quieter than where we came in. There shouldn’t be very many people around. But once we start fucking with the locks, we should hurry.” 

The first locked door is one Carter seems to pick at random from a sea of others. He nods to the card reader. “Here.” 

John fishes his pocketknife out of his pocket. “Keep an eye out.” The cover is easy to pry off. Keeping his hands steady is not. John takes a breath. Lets it out. And then it’s just a matter of exposing the wires, skinning and re-twisting them. The light overhead flashes from red to green. 

The next locked door leads to a tunnel – long and empty, except for a door, looking tiny and distant, at the far end. 

If it’s like the way they came in, on the other side of that door is daylight. 

Carter reaches the far door first, and stops dead. 

The last lock is behind a steel grating. Well out of reach. John stares; the boys are shifting restlessly behind him. They’re all looking at him. “We’ll ditch our tags, force the door – ” 

Carter frowns. “There’ll be alarms – ” 

“Make a run for it. At least without our tags, will have a prayer of getting away unidentified.” John reaches for his pocketknife. 

“And what about the tags?” Richie asks. “Even if we hide them, they’ll find them eventually.” 

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’ll be long gone by the time they find them.” He’s already got his hands on Jacob’s shoulders, twisting the chain to get to the clasp. “It’s the best shot we have of getting out of here.” 

John strips the tags off the boys first; their tags are a bright shiny silver. Issued yesterday, John thinks. _New._ Then it’s Richie, who tips his head to the side, exposes his neck. John’s hands work quickly, steadily. A twist and a pull, and Richie’s tags slide free. He brings a hand up to his throat. 

John turns to Carter. 

But Carter just shakes his head. “I’ll stay back. Hide the tags. I can’t, anyway.” He gestures at the door, and then holds out his wrist. 

_The chip in his arm._ John completely forgot. 

John stops. And Richie’s gone still beside him. “You should go,” Carter says. “You need to hurry.” 

“No. I’m not – are you crazy? I’m not leaving you here.” Richie grabs onto Carter’s outstretched hand. 

“You have to go, I’ll figure out another way out, I’ll – ” 

The door at the far end of the tunnel opens, and a guard steps through. 

They all freeze. And there’s something metallic coating the back of John’s throat. His heart feels close to exploding. He steps in front of the kids. As if would do anything. As if it would help. 

As he draws closer, John can see the shifting dull-black plates of his body armor; the bottom half of his face. “We have to go. Right now.” He takes a step back. 

Carter reaches for the door. 

“Don’t move.” The guard’s reaching up. Pulling at the straps of his helmet. Taking it off. He smiles at them. 

Carter gets it first, disbelief clear in his voice. “Rovy?” 

Five years ago, John put Kevin Rovy in the back of a car, set him in the hands of network of people who promised to get him out. To get him to safety. 

And now he’s here. Eyes clear and calm looking back at John. 

“A little bird told me you were going to be here. And that you might need help.” Rovy smiles again, and he’s looking right at John. “You have friends. Even in places where you might not expect them.” He flashes a badge at the card reader and the light clicks to green. “Go. You should hurry.” 

“Thank you,” John manages. 

“Thank you. For everything.” He claps John’s arm, then Carter’s. Nods solemnly at Richie. “Oh, and Coach – ” He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. Folded and worn. Clearly well-traveled. “Here.” 

They slip outside, beeline in the gathering dusk for the van Greener has waiting. 

It’s not until they’re back at Staples, and John is tucked away in his room, that he pulls the piece of paper out. Carefully unfolds it. 

_We’re safe. We’re waiting for you. We love you._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Did you see Aaron’s face? He was practically glowing.” Mike leads the way into his room, casting a glance over his shoulder as he goes. Jeff only hesitates a second at the threshold, watching Mike as he smiles and leans over to start pulling one shoe off. 

Aaron _had_ lit up, although he played it cool while Jeff and Mike were still standing there, tamping down on the grin that threatened to envelop his face, mouth twitching and something bright and clear in his eyes. The best thing Jeff has seen in a long time. And _Jeff_ had done that. Actually reached out, and touched the world, and _done something_ , something that actually mattered. 

Mike sits down on his bed and squints up at him, thoughtful. “You think they’re… you know?” 

“They’re just kids.” Jeff shuts the door behind them. 

“We were just kids.” Mike looks at him significantly, and he does have a point. “We’re _still_ just kids, according to John.” 

Mike’s grinning at him, looking tired but quietly pleased. He runs a hand across the back of his neck. And it’s so small, so simple, but so intensely _familiar_ , and something’s grabbing Jeff’s chest. Squeezing tight. 

“Are you alright?” Mike frowns, lines of worry appearing all over his face, but the adrenaline is closing Jeff’s throat. He’s dizzy with it, and looking at Mike it’s all rushing back up to the surface – warmth, affection, a possessive sense of pride. And he shouldn’t – he really, really shouldn’t – because it doesn’t make sense to crack himself open in this way, to leave himself exposed like this. 

Because it could be Mike, and they could just take him _away_ – 

Jeff moves in to set his hands on Mike’s shoulders. There’s surprise tempering Mike’s concern, and he’s holding himself so carefully still. So tight he’s almost vibrating under Jeff’s hands. “If it was you – ” Jeff’s hands tighten on his shoulders. “If it was you and they took you away from me, I don’t know what I’d do.” 

“Jeff – ” 

Jeff brings his hand up to hold Mike’s face, and Mike closes his eyes and leans into it. 

Mike has always loved being touched. Always sought it out. Always seemed happiest when Jeff’s hands were on him. 

Jeff can see him working to keep his composure. He keeps his eyes closed when Jeff runs his hands across the sides of Mike’s face, through the hair at his temples. When Jeff kisses him – “Oh,” Mike says, and his voice is breathless, surprised. _“Oh.”_

And Jeff has been hovering at the edges of Mike’s space since the bonfire, uncertain about pressing any further, but it seems suddenly impossible that he hasn’t kissed Mike since February, and even then, just the once – and beforethat – 

Jeff pulls back just a little, keeping a hand on Mike’s chin. Mike opens his eyes and he’s looking at Jeff, face worried and anxious, but like he’s squashing it down, trying to hide it, the lines around his mouth a familiar tell. And it doesn’t make sense, except – 

_Oh._ It suddenly clicks. Mike’s waiting for Jeff to _leave_. 

Jeff drops down to sit on the bed, pulls Mike with him. “Hey.” Mike’s perfectly still and stiff under his hands. “It’s okay.” It’s strange to see him so controlled. So careful. So unlike what Jeff remembers. He kisses Mike again, murmurs against his mouth “You can touch me. You can hold onto to me.” 

Mike’s hands slowly come up and settle on his back. “You’re sure? You’re okay?” He sounds breathless, uncertain. 

“Yeah.” Mike’s hair is soft under his hands. When Jeff presses at his shoulders, Mike falls back easily. 

It’s _Mike_ , but it feels new. Movements slow and uncertain. They make progress in fits and starts. Mike’s fingers slide across his neck, down his shoulders. Jeff drags his mouth back to Mike’s, and this time it’s frantic and messy, Jeff’s hands catching Mike’s face and holding it; Mike’s teeth tugging on his lip. 

Jeff presses his face into Mike’s neck. He can feel Mike’s pulse under his skin, racing away. Taste the salt on his skin. “Can I – is this okay?” Jeff asks, before he slides his hands up under Mike’s shirt. 

Mike nods, eyes huge, mouth shiny. Jeff helps him work his shirt off. Mike’s chest is patchwork of bruises – new and faded. He smiles a little up when Jeff traces his fingers over them. He looks serious, though, when Jeff sits up to pull his own t-shirt off. He reaches up to touch the edges of Jeff’s tattoo, so light that Jeff can barely feel it and eyes so sad that Jeff’s throat closes. 

Jeff lies back down next to him. Mike’s touch grows firmer, thumb rubbing warm circles into Jeff’s shoulder. Jeff inches closer, until he can rest his forehead against Mike’s. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of Mike’s pants. 

They stay like that for what feels like a long time. Just breathing. Sharing space. 

Jeff is the one to break the equilibrium – rubbing Mike’s hip, giving it a gentle nudge until Mike obligingly rolls onto his back. And then Jeff props himself up onto one elbow so he can look down at him. Mike’s eyes are dark looking back at him. 

Jeff slides down the bed a little, brings his fingers back to Mike’s waistband and looks at him again and waits. 

Mike’s breath catches. “You don’t have to – you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” 

Jeff brings his mouth down, swipes his tongue across the lowest bit of exposed skin available. 

Mike’s fingers twist in the sheets next to Jeff’s head. “Okay, okay. I get it.” A hint of laughter in his voice, and he lifts his hips enough for Jeff to start easing his pants down. 

Mike’s hands run over his head, through his hair while he reacquaints himself how Mike tastes. With the heat of his body and the rough, breathless noises he makes. 

“Jeff – ” Mike’s panting, squeezing his shoulders, pulling at him. “I want you up here. I want – ” 

Jeff climbs up to meet him, and Mike latches onto to him, mouth on his, hands at Jeff’s waist, freeing him of the rest of his clothing, and then Mike’s pressed up against him, one long line of warmth, mouth fast and needy, and hands moving over him – 

Jeff’s hand tightens in Mike’s hair when he comes, and Mike makes these noises, half desperate, half broken, fingers digging into Jeff’s arm when he follows. 

He wraps himself around Mike, after. His chest pressed close to Mike’s back, one arm wrapped firmly around him and holding him in place. 

Mike threads their fingers together. “Are you going back to your room?” His voice is carefully neutral. 

They have a lot of years together – there’s no way Jeff could miss the sound of nerves in Mike’s voice, the tension in his shoulders, like the very idea makes him miserable. But Mike’s pretending otherwise, like it wouldn’t tear at him if Jeff were to leave. Because it might be what _Jeff_ wants. 

Stupid fucking Mike. Stupid fucking, selfless, loyal, brave, precious _Mike_. Jeff tightens his arm around him. “That depends. Are you going to make me sleep in the wet spot?” 

Mike’s breath goes out in a surprised laugh. He twists to glare at Jeff over his shoulder. 

Jeff kisses his neck. “I’ll stay. If you want me to, I’ll stay.” 

Mike’s hand tightens on his. “I always want you to stay.” 

  


 

 

 

 

They have four days. Four days to rest and recover. Four days of light practices. Four days of pulling Mike to him and holding him there whenever the opportunity presents itself. A slow renegotiation of boundaries. A careful redrawing of not just how he’s allowed to touch Mike, but where. In the lounge after dinner, on a lazy evening when they have no obligations, Mike sits down on the couch next to him, a careful few inches between them. Jeff lifts his hand and lets it trail absently down Mike’s arm. 

Mike smiles at him; his fingers brush Jeff’s knee. “I think it’s okay, if – I mean I’m okay with it. If you’re okay with it. It’s not like they don’t – know.” Mike seems to realize he’s rambling, trails off uncertainly. 

“You think?” Jeff asks. 

Mike just looks at him, dark eyes watching him carefully. 

  
Jeff reaches out and tugs Mike’s sleeve, tugs until Mike moves to sit pressed against his side, tucks himself under the weight of Jeff’s arm. Jeff rests his fingers against the nape of Mike’s neck. 

He stiffens a little, when Mitchell walks in. But Mitchie just grins. “Don’t get up on my account.” 

Pens is less circumspect. He takes one look at them and snorts. “Should have bet the under.” 

 

 

 

 

Mike thrives on the attention. He puts pucks past Quickie at a rate that has, “Fuck you, Richards!” ringing out across the ice on the regular. He teases the rookies. He teases the _coaches._

__

He stands directly behind Coach Stevens, perfectly mimicking his posture. Hands an exact mirror of how Stevens holds his stick. 

“Doan likes to bring it up the gut.” Stevens shifts his weight. Behind him, Mike echoes the shift. 

Doughty snickers. Stevens very pointedly does not turn around, but he pulls his glove off, points blindly at Mike and then jerks his hand back towards the group of players in front of him. Mike skates around him to join the others, bumping his shoulder into Jeff’s. He looks not at all abashed. 

Stevens’ mouth is twitching suspiciously, but he clears his throat and continues. “So you’re going to drive him to the wall, keep him to the outside.” And later, when they’re coming off the ice, he pulls Jeff, Pens, and Mike aside. “Your line’s looking really good. You’re going to see a lot of minutes, so rest up.” 

Mike preens. And in that moment, in that stretch of days everything is calm inside of Jeff. Steady, optimistic even, like’s everything’s going to be fine. 

 

 

 

 

And then they fly to Phoenix. 

“The Maroon is a League team,” Sutter says on the flight in. “No one’s looking to do you any favors here.” 

“A League team in a League town,” Brown hisses at them just after, driving the point home. The disgust in his voice is almost palpable. “Heads down, mouths _shut_ , got it?” 

Coach Stevens goes down the aisle of the airplane, tapping shoulders. “I want to see you guys up front.” He taps Jeff, but not Mike. When Jeff gets up there, he realizes Stevens has summoned all the imports. They crowd around Stevens, leaning over the seats. “Listen. The Black tends to be pretty lax in how we treat our imports, and that’s not going to fly in Phoenix. We need to follow their rules while we’re there.” Stevens shrugs uncomfortably. “And I need you to pretend that that’s how we treat you at home, as well.” 

“I can’t let you eat with the rest of the team. I can’t let you room with non-imports.” He looks pointedly at Jeff. Then he shifts his gaze. “And Kopi, I’m sorry, you can’t wear the ‘A’ in Phoenix.” 

Kopi’s mouth sets into a hard line. 

“They will use whatever excuse they can to get you suspended. To get you out of the game. And _you_ _all_ are especially vulnerable to that, do you understand?” Stevens puts a hand on Kopi’s shoulder, but he’s looking at all of them. “Okay. Good luck, boys.” 

There’s a pause after he leaves them. Jeff watches Kopi grind his teeth, the worried twist of Voynov’s hands. Jeff coughs. “Seriously –Phoenix mozhet poyti na khuy,” he curses. 

Kopi snorts, but he’s smiling. 

 

 

 

 

Game 1, the Maroon is taking runs at Mike. Mike and Brownie. 

During the first intermission, Jeff can see Mike across the room, rolling his shoulder gingerly. Jeff watches a trainer approach him, and Mike accepts water and an ice pack gratefully. 

But all he can do is watch from across the room. He can’t hold the ice for Mike, can’t put his hands on him. Isn’t even supposed to _speak_ to him. Jeff grinds his jaw. “Pochemu Richie i Brown?” Jeff asks Kopi, who is tightening and retying his skates. “You’re the one who scored last period.” He doesn’t mean it to come out quite so accusatory. 

Kopi glances over, one eyebrow going up. “Because if they come after me or you, Ricky or Brownie will come after them. They’ll get to us. _Odin, dva, tri, chetyre,_ Carts. One thing and then the next.” 

Across the room, Mike gives him a tiny smile, and in the tunnel, hidden under the roar of the crowd, he whispers, “Score a goal. Score, so I can at least hug you on the ice.” 

With the clock winding down on the second period, Jeff carries it to the blue line, chips it in just before the Maroon D can knock him into the boards. Jeff shakes it off, and Mike’s already chasing it down, battling it out in the corner. And Jeff can tell, just from the look on his face, that there’s no way Mike’s not the guy coming out with the puck. Mike is ferocious, fearless in the way he throws his body, just one step quicker, just one step faster – 

And all due respect to Dustin Brown, but _this_ is Jeff’s captain. 

Jeff sets up in the slot, and when Mike comes out with the puck, he’s ready. Mike sets him up perfect, and Jeff lofts it, top shelf, glove side. The goalie never had a chance. And for the first time in a very long while, he gets a little surge of joy, because it may just be hockey but it’s _him and Mike_ , and if they have to play, _this_ is how they’re supposed to play. Jeff turns, to look for him – 

And is just in time to see Mike get leveled. 

  
The buzzer sounds to end the period. 

Jeff is across the ice in an instant. Penner is already sliding into Rozsival, pushing him back. Two more Maroon players slide into him, and suddenly there’s a scrum. 

Mike’s still at the center of it. “Mike?” Jeff shoulders his way in. Mike is bent at the waist, stick and gloves discarded on the ice. 

“I’m fine.” He’s got a hand pressed tightly to his side. He winces. “Will you grab my stuff?”’ 

Mike’s face has gone white around the mouth. Jeff nods. 

Mike heads straight for the trainer’s room. 

Coach Stevens puts a hand on Jeff’s arm, stopping him before he can follow. Jeff stares _,_ but Stevens just lifts his chin, points towards the room, and through the window, Jeff can see someone in dark Morality Officer robes hovering over Mike. 

Jeff goes cold all over, and it’s such a vicious, bitter sort of anger that he’s sick with it. He lets Stevens guide him back to his stall. Jeff strips off his upper gear methodically, and Stevens gives him a towel to hang over his face. Create the illusion of privacy. 

Jeff can feel his tags, tacky with sweat, sticking to his skin. 

Stevens is gone for a second. When he returns, he sets one hand lightly on the back of Jeff’s neck. “They’re putting a couple stitches in,” he says quietly. “He’ll be back for the third.” 

Someone sits down on Jeff’s other side, and Stevens gives the nape of Jeff’s neck a last gentle squeeze, before getting up and walking away. Jeff pulls the towel off his face. 

It’s Kopi next to him. “Ty v poryadke? Are you okay?” 

Jeff shrugs. He looks up in time to see Mike come out of the trainer’s room, a long strip of gauze taped over his ribs. “I’m going to make them regret touching him.” 

On the ice, Jeff rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck. He turns to Penner. “Keep an eye on him out there. I’m going to be busy.” 

“Ooh.” Penner studies him carefully. “If this is the chatty version of Jeff Carter, I like it.” 

Jeff’s second goal comes from Kopi and Williams on the power play. His third from Brown. 

They take the game 4-0. 

 

 

 

 

  
Game 2, both goalies close the door. They go into the third tied 1-1. A minute and a half in, Kinger puts one in the back of the net. Sutter sends Mike’s line out. There are M.O.s posted at either end of the bench; all Jeff can do is hop the boards and watch carefully as Mike does the same. 

There are tight lines of pain around Mike’s mouth. He spent a long time with the trainers this morning. 

Stevens will only tell him that Mike’s fine to play. Jeff thinks _fine_ and _fine to play_ are clearly different things. 

“We’ve just got to play this one,” Mike says to him on the bench. His voice low and glancing at Jeff carefully out of the corner of his eye. “And then we get to go home.” His elbow nudges Jeff’s side. _Home._ Or, at least, the Black. Where he can hold Mike, and put his hands on him, and finally make reassure himself that he’s alright. 

Off the faceoff, Jeff posts up in front of the net, elbowing back at the D-man who keeps jabbing him with his stick. The Maroon has been pushing them around all game. The ref is watching them, and Jeff’s pretty sure he can draw a penalty if he just pisses the D-man off a little more. Glancing over, he can see Pens is high side, by the boards, and Mike – Jeff doesn’t need to look to know where Mike is, he just knows. Mike will be by the point, looking for a way to get Jeff the puck. 

It’s Jeff’s job to be ready. 

Scuds snaps it quick and clean to Pens; Pens goes cross-ice to Mike, and Jeff circles and angles himself towards the net because they’ve pulled this play literally hundreds of times, and Jeff’s set up just right, he knows exactly where Mike’s going to send the pass, exactly when it’s going to come. 

Except the puck doesn’t come. And it was so perfect – he was expecting it so clearly, that he actually looks up in surprise. 

He’s in time to see Mike tangle with the Maroon forward. They both hit the ice hard, a twisted mess of limbs and sticks, and they’re sliding – 

Mike’s body hits the wall shoulder-first, skates thudding against it a split second later, loosely, lifelessly. The broken off end of the Maroon player’s stick jutting up out his chest like a spear. 

There’s blood on the ice. 

The Maroon player scrambles to his feet, skating away. But Mike doesn’t move. 

And Jeff’s _trying_ to get there, but Penner’s in his face, blocking him. Jeff shoves at him, but Pens has him held fast. “ _Get off me,_ ” Jeff snarls. 

“No.” Pens has two fistfuls of his jersey. 

“I need to get over there. I need to – ” 

“You really don’t, Carts. You really, _really_ don’t need to see that.” 

Jeff stops struggling, and Pens loosens his grip, lets him fall back a step. He can’t see much over Pens’ shoulder. Just a scrum of trainers. A wall of players’ backs around the scene. 

Mike is down. Mike is hurt. And Jeff can’t even – 

Jeff can’t breathe. It’s like there’s a red film in front of his vision, and then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement. 

The Maroon player is at the far end of the ice, skating slow, shoe-gazing laps. And maybe it’s not really his fault. Maybe he’s not the reason they’re all out here. Not the reason Jeff couldn’t speak to Mike this morning, couldn’t make sure he was okay before the game – but he’s the one Jeff can _reach_. 

Jeff doesn’t remember moving. He doesn’t remember hitting him, or lighting up his stick, but the Maroon player doesn’t make it more than one stride down the ice before Jeff takes him _down._

There is a moment, a brief instant where he thinks about what he’s doing, where he hesitates, and could stop. There’s nothing but a roar in his ears and the moment seems to stretch on forever. 

Then the Maroon player is twisting them so that Jeff’s back is to the ice, and he cracks Jeff once across the jaw. Jeff gets his stick _up_ just as the Maroon player lunges – 

And then the player is just so much dead weight on top of him. 

Jeff’s face is next to the ice, the cold etching itself into his cheek, the back of his neck. From this angle, the whole world is tilted on its side, and if he cranes his neck, he can see the crowd gathered at the other end. 

They carry Mike off. 

They carry the Maroon player off. 

Jeff skates off. 

And there’s probably noise, but Jeff can’t hear any of it, can’t take any of it in, until Coach Stevens is gripping the back of his neck, hard. “ _Move_ , Carter,” he hisses, right in Jeff’s ear. “Go to the locker room. Wait. Don’t talk to anyone. You’ve been ejected.” 

Inside, Jeff sinks down. He drops his stick, his gloves. Reaches for the hem of his jersey and gets stuck there. The skin of his hands looks gray, bloodless. At some point, he starts shivering. 

“Carter.” John Stevens sits down across from him. “Carter. _Jeff._ ” Stevens drops down to kneel by Jeff’s skates. When Jeff doesn’t respond, he sighs and begins systematically untying them, loosening the laces. 

“Lift your left foot, Jeff,” he says, easing it off. He repeats the procedure on the right. “Are you hurt?” 

Jeff shakes his head. 

Stevens tugs at his jersey. “Start undressing. Come on, you’ve got blood all over you.” 

Jeff looks down. “Oh.” There is blood on him. He wipes a hand across the front of his jersey. 

Stevens’ jaw goes tight. He stands up and helps Jeff ease the jersey over his head, takes it from his numb fingers. He has to walk Jeff to the showers, push him under the spray. 

When he comes out, Stevens says to him, voice clipped and taut. “Listen to me. You’re going to go in front of a review board. You’re going to tell them you were angry that he hurt your teammate. You’re going to say that you just meant to knock him down. You’re going to say you didn’t mean to light up your stick, that it was an accident.” 

Jeff shakes his head. “It wasn’t an accident.” 

Stevens stares at him, eyes a hard, flat gray. “Jeff. Mike Richards is coming back, so if you want to be here when he does, you need to listen to me.” 

Jeff swallows. “How is he?” 

“I don’t know.” Stevens crosses his arms across his chest. “They took him to the hospital. They took them both to the hospital. So, listen – ” 

“Accident,” Jeff echoes, trying to keep his voice steady. “I meant to knock him down. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t mean to use my stick.” 

“Good.” 

 

 

 

 

He says the same thing to the review board. They have their answer by the time the team’s plane lands in LA. They’ve suspended him three games. It’s hard to care. 

 

 

 

 

Jeff holds his vigil sitting on Mike’s empty bed, staring at the wall, or at the small collection of possessions Mike has gathered in his time with the Black. 

But he’s not alone. 

Brown sits with him the first couple hours. Quietly, with his hands folded in his lap. 

Kopitar takes over for Brown around ten and spends the time murmuring stories about faraway places. 

At midnight, it’s Voynov, who addresses him in Russian too quick for Jeff to understand, but whose eyes are dark and solemn as he’s nodding at Jeff anyway, like it’s clear what he meant. 

Voynov is relieved by Mitchell, who levers himself down onto the floor slowly – as if his joints were really as creaky as he’s always claiming – rests his hands on the edge of the bed, and begins speaking, words low and measured. The same words, over and over again, although it takes a few repetitions for Jeff to realize, his attention wandering, just catching snippets. “ _…pray for us sinners. Now and in the hour of our deaths.”_

Mitchell’s voice is beginning to rasp when Penner takes over for him. Penner folds his arms across his chest and stares at Jeff. “It’s really fucking stupid to care about someone, shit being as fucked as it is,” he says. “But anyway. Ricky is one tough motherfucker. This one time…” 

Pens is still going strong when it starts to get light. It’s King who comes in at dawn, looking young and awkward, and shy. “Kinger!” Pens shoves him into a seated position across from Jeff. “Tell Carts here all about what it’s like being from literally the middle of fucking nowhere.” 

“Um. Well,” King says, after Penner leaves. “I lived near this lake.” 

Jeff looks up. 

“Bird’s Lake? It’s – ” Kinger waves vaguely, “ – way east of the Blue  & Orange? Kind of Farm country, you know?” 

When the team has to get ready for the game, Westgarth – a healthy scratch – comes and sits with him. “Do you want to watch the game?” Westy asks. 

Jeff shakes his head. 

 

 

 

 

Stevens finds him afterwards. “Richie is going to be okay,” he says. “He’s going to be fine.” 

Jeff’s throat is closing. Hot tears forcing their way out, and Jeff should maybe be more embarrassed about crying in front of his coach, but he can’t really be bothered. 

“But – Carter – listen. Campbell died.” Which, Jeff can’t even think who that _is_. “The Maroon player,” Stevens clarifies. “He died.” Stevens’ voice is oddly gentle, and he’s looking at Jeff worried. 

But there’s something flat and cold in place of the part of Jeff that should care about that information. “When is Mike coming back?” he asks. “When do I get to see Mike?” 

 

 

 

 

They return Mike to him in the morning. “See?” Mike says, showing him the red, angry line that runs from his chest down his side, where the blade of the knife wedged between his skin and pads. “Just a scratch. The hit just ripped all my stitches out. Knocked me the fuck out, but I’m fine. Really.” 

Jeff helps him tape all the bandages back into place, and Mike holds still, patient while Jeff touches his face, runs his hands carefully along Mike’s sides. Mike is warm and _alive_ under his hands. Jeff can feel his own heart thumping away, loud and too fast in his chest. 

“Hey,” Mike says. “Hey.” He brings his hand up to Jeff’s face, careful and slow. Jeff closes his eyes. 

That night, Jeff wraps himself around Mike, tucking his face into the nape of Mike’s neck, hand resting at Mike’s hip, carefully avoiding the bruised expanse of his side. “Can I stay with you?” 

“Yeah,” Mike breathes. “Yeah, Jeff. Of course.” 

Jeff settles in behind him, tucking himself close enough to Mike that he can feel the warmth of Mike’s skin, the quiet drumbeat of his pulse. 

Mike shifts a little in the dark, fingers brushing over Jeff’s arm. “So. Campbell.” His voice is low, a hint of a question in his tone. 

Jeff tightens his arm around Mike, buries his face in his shoulder. 

 

 

 

 

Without them, the Black win Game 3, lose Game 4, and fly out the next day for the Maroon. “It feels weird, not going with the team,” Mike says. He prods at the bandaged area on his chest. 

Jeff’s spent the entirety of his suspension keeping Mike within arm’s reach, drinking in the fact that he’s breathing, safe and whole. It’s hard to get too worked up about missing the game. He knocks Mike’s hand away. “The guys can handle it.” 

Mike sighs. “Come on. If I shower downstairs, you can help me keep this mess dry.” 

The corridors of the Black’s arena are eerily quiet as they walk through them, the locker room deserted. Mike’s pulling towels down from the shelf in the locker room. He pauses, looking around the empty room. “I still don’t like not being there.” 

“You’ll be back in the lineup soon.” The trainer said Mike could be back as early as Game 6. If there’s a Game 6. Although, to be perfectly honest, Jeff isn’t exactly happy about it. Mike ensconced in his room is safe and warm. Miles from anyone who wants to _stab_ him. 

Mike on the ice is not. 

Mike, of course, sees right through him. “You can’t keep me bubble-wrapped, Jeff. I’d go crazy.” 

_Hypocrite_ . “Maybe.” But he can certainly try. “Speaking of bubble wrap, come here.” Jeff’s got the plastic wrap Mike’s supposed to use to keep his bandages dry. 

Mike eyes it darkly, but strips off his shirt and submits to letting Jeff tape it in place, a sour twist to his mouth. “It itches.” 

Jeff drags his nails over the edge of the tape. “It’s just another few days.” He gives Mike a gentle shove towards the showers. 

Once there, he helps Mike work soap through his hair, Mike angling his body away from the spray so the bandages stay dry. Mike’s got his eyes closed, water running over his face. His skin is flushed and slippery under Jeff’s hands. Wet eyelashes clinging together and cheeks pink from the heat. And he looks so pleased, Jeff can’t help but draw it out. He runs his fingers carefully across Mike’s scalp, rubbing gently at his temples, at the nape of his neck. 

There are two types of spaces in Jeff’s mind, the world of closed, locked doors – behind which he can touch Mike, and everywhere else, where he can’t. The locker room is firmly, emphatically in the latter. 

Except there’s no one around. And it’s suddenly hard to care about anything else, except for the fact that Mike is warm and whole and safe and _here_. 

Jeff kisses him. Mike blinks up at him, surprised, automatically glancing around. 

“Nobody’s here.” He kisses Mike’s jaw, Mike’s throat. 

Mike’s starting to make these small groaning noises, and his hands are sliding over Jeff, gripping his hips before slipping off. “You – ” Mike pauses, eyes falling shut, when Jeff wraps a hand around his dick. “You are supposed to be helping me – ” 

“I am helping you,” Jeff says, tightening his grip. 

Mike grins at that, quick and sly. And it’s so good to see; Jeff gets a little spark of pleasure, just seeing him smile. Jeff walks him backwards a step, away from the spray. “Don’t fall.” 

Mike has an arm wound around his neck and he’s urging Jeff closer again, face tipped up, water still dripping off him. His skin is flushed and overheated. The air is thick and humid in Jeff’s lungs, but Mike smells like soap, and he’s moaning into Jeff’s mouth, fingers trying for grip on Jeff and slipping off. Mike’s leaning against him more and more, getting heavier in his arms, and he braces himself against the wall. Jeff slows down, just touching him lightly now. 

“Oh, you fucker.” Mike lets his head fall back against the tile. “Don’t tease. Come on.” His hips buck a little. 

And the look he’s giving Jeff is so warm, so fond, and that more than anything is leaving Jeff heady, almost giddy. He brings his mouth back to Mike’s. Quickens his strokes, until Mike’s eyelids drift shut again, lips parted. Holds him upright through it. 

In the locker room after he has Mike stretch out on one of the trainer’s tables – carefully unwraps him and starts the delicate process of re-bandaging. 

Mike is sprawled bonelessly across the table, one arm thrown over his eyes, a lazy smile on his face. “How’s it look?” 

Jeff pauses, looking at the long line of neat black stitches. “Gross.” 

Mike moves his arm so he can make a point of rolling his eyes at Jeff. 

Jeff ignores him, diligently taping the last piece of gauze into place. “Come on. Get dressed. Game’s starting soon. Ready to go watch?” 

“Yep.” Mike sighs a little, pushes himself upright, wincing a little as he bends. He holds onto Jeff’s hand until they turn the last corner, push through the last doorway into the public sphere, and then he squeezes Jeff’s fingers once tightly before letting go. 

The scratches who aren’t traveling with the team and the kids are gathered in the lounge. It’s a motley assortment. “Shoo, kid.” Westy chases one of the boys off the couch in front of the TV. He pats the seat and looks at Mike. “Priority seating for the handicapped.” 

Mike rolls his eyes, but he sits. 

Jeff settles on the floor at his feet, just as Westy’s asking him, “You want me to make more space?” 

“No.” Jeff leans back against the couch. “I’m good here.” 

Mike’s hand settles on his head. He runs his fingertips through Jeff’s hair. 

The Maroon take them to overtime, but Pens puts in the game winner. The _series_ winner. “Shit,” Mike says, smile clear in his voice. “He’s going to be _unbearable_.” 

They have a week. A week to heal and get ready. And then it’s the Red  & Black. Cup Final. Jeff concentrates on the feeling of Mike’s fingers moving over his scalp. He closes his eyes. 

 

 

 

 

The buildings and houses of the Red & Black press in close on each other. The scenery is oddly familiar – they played the Red & Black dozens of times when they were with the Orange. And now they’re back. 

They’ve only just stepped off the plane and shuttled to the hotel, when Dean Lombardi motions at them, pulls them aside, and says, “Brown, Carter, Richards, with me, please.” He regards them steadily from behind his glasses. “There is a League reception tonight. You three will be there. It’s black tie; one of my assistants will dress you accordingly.” 

“What? No.” Mike looks pissed. “Being dressed up and paraded around isn’t my job. Not anymore.” He glances at Brownie, who rolls his eyes. 

Lombardi’s mouth thins, something subtle changes in his posture – it’s nothing obvious, but suddenly he’s transformed himself from _friendly suit_ to _The Boss._ “Well, you’re actually welcome to pass, Mr. Richards, as the Red & Black’s socialites are not so much interested in _you_. They want to see Brown and Carter. But I was reliably informed that there would be an _‘epic shit fit’_ if I tried to take the one of you without the other.” 

“Why us?” Jeff asks. 

Lombardi looks over sharply. “Well, Brown because he’s the captain, obviously. And you because you killed a man and that intrigues them.” 

Lombardi’s voice is so flat. Jeff can’t tell what he thinks about that at all. 

Next to him, Mike bristles. “That’s ridiculous – ” 

“I don’t need to remind you the importance of keeping your head down, do I?” Lombardi glares at each of them in turn. “We have bigger things at stake here. Which means if the League asks you to jump, you will jump. If they ask you to sing a song, you sing. If they ask you to go to a party, you’ll go. Anything they ask, you’ll do, you understand?” 

 

 

 

 

“Wow,” Brownie mutters under his breath. “This isn’t awkward _at all.”_

“I feel ridiculous,” Mike grumbles. 

Jeff’s suit is trying to strangle him. He feels a lot worse than _ridiculous_. The shirt collars the men are wearing mask the neck, but Jeff would put money on the fact that they’re the only ones wearing tags. 

Well. Except for Parise, Salvador, and Kovalchuk, who are standing on the opposite side of the room, looking equally uncomfortable. But it’s not like they can go socialize with _them._

Brown scratches his face. “It could be worse. Lombardi could have made us shave.” 

“Are you kidding? These people want us to look like animals. The more beard, the better.” Mike shakes his head. 

He’s right, too. Earlier a woman had come up to Jeff and fanned herself. She grabbed her companion’s arm. “William, just look how different they seem when they’re all clean!” Jeff had gotten to watch as Mike had bitten his tongue, hard, and it was almost, _almost_ funny. Then there was the guy who told Brown, “You’ve made a lot of progress this year, Dustin, but you still need to take more shots on net.” And, “You know, I used to play a little myself, at Harvard.” 

“Thank you,” Brownie said, in a perfectly sincere tone. Then his eyes had slanted over to Jeff, one eyebrow raised just the tiniest bit, letting Jeff in on the joke. 

Mike and Brownie are parked in front of the buffet table. “Oh, try this. It looks like fruit, but it tastes like bacon.” Mike elbows him, and Jeff jostles him back. He waves off the proffered food item. Jeff’s watching the crowd. It’s mostly older couples, or older men with younger women. The men all in dark suits, some of them are wearing armbands: mostly striped red and black, or unbroken black edged in silver, but some have more exotic affiliations. Jeff’s eyes keep catching on one man’s whose armband is a loud, familiar orange. The women are glimmering, dripping with decoration. There’s a woman in a red dress, all long lines and pale skin, but – 

“No, seriously. I don’t know what the _fuck_ this is – ” 

Brownie shushes him. “ _Hey.”_

“But it’s really good,” Mike adds at a much lower volume. 

– but Jeff keeps losing her in crowd. 

Brownie glances over and snorts. “It’s a fucking shrimp,” he whispers. Mike shrugs. 

Her hair is jet black and cropped short. When Jeff spots her again, her arm is linked through that of a tall, gray-haired man wearing a Red  & Black armband. Her back is to Jeff, but there’s something familiar about the line of her neck, the tilt of her shoulders. Jeff’s heart thumps, and he’s abruptly glad his stomach is empty. “Mike.” He tugs at Mike’s sleeve. 

Mike looks away from the buffet. “What?” 

She turns around. And Julia is just as beautiful as Jeff remembered. Mike goes very still beside him. 

Across the room she meets his eyes, and then she _smiles._

__

“Ricky?” Brown is looking at Mike, puzzled. “Carts, what is it?” 

Mike is still staring, frozen, but Jeff spares a quick look at Brown. “It’s – she’s – ” 

The man Julia’s with touches her arm. She’s glances back at him – laughing at something he says, and lets him lead her away. 

“We should go,” Mike says. 

Brown’s eyes narrow. “We can’t _go._ Lombardi said – ” 

“I don’t give a fuck what Lombardi said.” Mike’s got his hand on Jeff’s arm, and he tugs roughly. “We need to leave.” 

“Mike – ” 

Mike looks up at him. “What?” 

“Brownie’s right.” 

Mike glares at him. “Jeff,” he grits out from between clenched teeth; he closes his eyes, takes a breath, and turns to Brown. “Would you excuse us? Just for a second?” 

It’s unclear where Mike thinks he’s going to find privacy, but Jeff lets himself be dragged outside, onto the patio, all the way to the far side of the pool, where the noise from the party fades into the background, and where they’re somewhat sheltered from sight behind a small shed piled high with pool chairs. “We need to go _, right now_ , and – ” 

“And _what_ , Mike?” 

“And – ” Mike gestures fiercely at the air, frustrated. 

It’s strange to see Mike this off balance, and it leaves Jeff flustered. “It’s not like you to run away.” 

Mike gives him an irate look. “Jeff. Her being here is a _bad thing._ She – ” 

“Hello, boys. Am I interrupting?” Julia looks up at them, eyes wide in the low light. 

Mike starts hard. And then he grabs her – shoving her roughly up against the side of the shed. Her shoulders hit the wall with a loud _rattle_ , and Mike grabs her _throat_ – 

“Mike. Mike!” Jeff is between them before he even has a chance to think about it. And Jeff’s always kept her separate. He’d built a careful mental wall, _Julia_ on one side, and what she did, what she _was_ on the other. 

But Mike’s gaze is so furious. It makes all that impossible to ignore. _“Jeff_.” 

“You idiot!” Julia hisses from behind him. “What are you doing? Anyone could have seen that.” 

Mike shoves at him, trying to get around him. “I will _give them_ something to see.” Jeff has to plant two hands on his chest to hold him back. “You bitch. You whore – ” 

“Oh, yeah, Mike,” she spits back, voice dripping sarcasm. “You’re the first one to call me that, _good job._ You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? You think you know who all the good guys are and who all the bad guys are. Well, I’m so happy for you that you’ve been able to keep your hands clean. You must sleep so well at night. Congratu-fucking-lations.” 

Mike glares and shakes his head. “You’re a fucking snake. You don’t give a shit about anyone except yourself.” 

“You have _no idea_ what you’re talking about. I’m on your side, you idiot. I’m trying to help you.” 

“Yeah right.” Mike takes a step back. “You’re on nobody’s side but your own.” 

“Oh, yeah? Then how do I know you’re going to make this series go seven games? How do I know you’re going to use Game Seven to send out a call to arms?” 

Mike hesitates, but then he covers. “You’re fucking crazy,” he says. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Julia shakes her head. “You’re a terrible liar, Mike Richards.” She sidesteps around Jeff. “I’m trying to help you,” she says again. 

Mike shakes his head. “What you did to us,” his voice is low and angry. “Was _awful_. I don’t want any _help_ from you.” 

Julia looks back at Mike unblinking. “Yeah. It was. But what we’re doing is bigger than you or me. And you’re not the only one who had to make sacrifices.” Her face is hard, voice cold. “This is so much more important than any one of us – ” 

“No,” Mike cuts her off. “No. You have _nothing_ to say that I want to hear.” He grabs ahold of Jeff’s arm. “We’re leaving.” 

Jeff looks at Julia and back at Mike. And hesitates. 

There was a time when he loved her. Totally and completely. With every fiber of his being. When she had meant safety and quiet. And there’s a piece of him that’s loved her ever since. 

“Jeff.” Mike blinks at him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” His hand falls off Jeff’s arm. “Are you serious?” 

Jeff’s chest hurts. Looking at her is like looking at everything he’s never going to have. And he thought he’d buried all that, burned up all those dreams – but here she is in front of him, and it’s like broken glass in his throat, a stone on his chest, all over again. “Mike.” And maybe it sounds a little bit like he’s pleading. 

Mike shakes his head, mouth hanging open, and he’s got this look on his face like he doesn’t even know who Jeff _is._ “Jeff,” he says, very slowly. “We can’t trust her.” 

“I want to talk to her anyway. Mike, please – ” _Please understand._

All their carefully fostered closeness is still so new, so fragile. And Mike’s face is starting to move from disbelief to anger. He tugs Jeff’s arm again, hard enough to jostle him. “I’m not leaving you alone with her.” 

Like he gets to decide where Jeff goes. Who he talks to. “I can take care of myself.” 

Mike gapes at him silently, pulls his hand back like it’s been burned. He takes a step back. 

Jeff wants to grab him. Shake him – why can’t he see how important this is? And he needs a moment – just one _fucking_ moment – to think, to breathe, for _something._ “I’ll catch up.” 

“Fuck that,” Mike says, hurt and betrayal clear on his face. Then he throws his hands up. “Fuck _you_.” And walks away. 

Julia watches him go; then she turns and looks at Jeff. 

There’s a bruise beginning to darken just above her collarbone. Jeff touches it lightly. For all his dreaming of her, he has put so much time and effort into not thinking about her in this world, not guessing where she is, or who she’s with – 

And now she’s standing right here. He touches her cheek. Julia closes her eyes, that careful mask she wears starting to crumble, just a bit. “Don’t be nice to me,” she says. “I don’t think I could stand it if you were nice to me.” 

She’s so soft, and her whole cheek fits under the palm of his hand. 

“You should be angry.” She swallows and pulls away from his hands. “Let me see it.” She’s got her hands on the buttons of his shirt, and she’s sliding it open, tugging the fabric out the way. She touches his tattoo softly, carefully. “Did it hurt? Did they hurt you?” 

She used to be his confidant. The one he could confess anything to. Jeff shakes his head. “No,” he lies. 

She smiles a little at that, broken and wobbly at the edges. Buttons his shirt for him, slides her hand across the fabric to guide it back into place. She takes a deep breath, features smoothing out. “I am trying to help you,” she says again, hands still resting against his chest. 

He touches her shoulders, her face again. “Okay.” She’s so lovely. So impossibly delicate. Such a wild and sweeping escape. 

“You should go,” she says. Her fingers curl in the fabric of his jacket. 

“I am.” He wraps his arms around her. 

“Mike’s upset.” 

“Mike will understand.” 

She laughs against his chest. “Oh, yeah?” 

Jeff drops his head and speaks into her hair. “When I see Mike, I’m going to tell him that I’m never going to see you again. That I’m never going to talk to you again.” 

She nods. “I am sorry you got hurt.” Her voice is steady. 

Sorry it was necessary, Jeff thinks she means. Not sorry she did it. He draws her closer against him. “I love you. I loved you,” he corrects. 

Her grip on him tightens. A soft, sad smile on her face. “You never knew me.” 

It’s the first thing she’s said that he’s ever been certain was true. 

 

 

 

 

Mike is in his hotel room, but it’s his roommate, Lewis, who answers the door. Jeff jerks his head; Lewis takes off, looking more grateful than anything else. 

“I really, _really_ don’t want to talk to you,” Mike is curled on his bed, facing away. Jeff sits down opposite him. “I mean it,” Mike adds. 

It’s just a moment of silence, though, before Mike rolls upright to face him. “She fucked us over, Jeff. She sold us out. You know that, right? How can you even want to look at her?” Mike stares him down. “How can you have _anything_ to say to her?” 

“I know.” He hesitates, worrying at a thread in his sleeve; it’s hard to look at Mike. “But. I knew before, too.” 

Mike reaches across the gap between the beds to shake him, forces him to look up, and Mike’s gaping at him blankly, mouth moving like he’s looking for words. “What do you mean you _knew?”_

__

Jeff swallows, and he wishes he were better at this, wishes he had the words for this, for everything that’s thumping around just under his chest – 

“She spied on us. She got you sent to Columbus. She cost us _everything_.” Mike’s grip on him tightens. “What the _fuck_ do you mean, you _knew?”_

Jeff tries to pull back, but Mike won’t let him. “I mean – I didn’t know exactly, but – I knew she was lying. I knew she wasn’t who she said she was.” 

Mike is still staring at him, lost. “I don’t understand.” 

Jeff’s stumbling over his words, and it’s hard – hard to explain that it wasn’t ever something that was _said_ or _acknowledged_. That it had hovered just at the edges of his awareness, and that he hadn’t quite realized, hadn’t quite put it all together, until that day in Holmgren’s office. 

When Holmgren had laid it all out, and the one thing Jeff hadn’t felt was _surprise_. 

“She knew too much. She had too many answers.” Jeff pauses. “She… she protected me. Us. She would say, ‘Don’t go to that part of the city.’ And then the next day you’d hear about a raid. She’d just say she heard a rumor, or had a feeling. But I knew. Or at least, I guessed.” 

“Then why didn’t you say anything? You never _said_ anything, not ever.” 

“I didn’t want it to be true.” Jeff hesitates. Mike looks so raw, but. “Because I loved her.” 

Mike’s lips press together and he jerks away. 

“Because I loved her. I loved her so much, and – ” 

Mike scrubs his face roughly. “I don’t want to hear this.” 

“No.” It’s welling up in Jeff, the sudden need to _say_ it, to make Mike understand. “I used to dream about running away with her. I used to imagine what it would be like to be married to her, to live in some small town – a quiet life. No one asking me to hurt anyone. No one trying to hurt me. A house. Kids.” 

“Stop.” Mike looks like something trapped. Something dangerous. He stands. 

But Jeff can’t leave it alone, can’t stop, can’t catch his breath. He follows Mike up, grabbing at his shoulder. “Please. You have to understand – ” 

“No. I really, really don’t.” Mike’s face is red. He skirts around Jeff. 

He makes it all the way to the hallway before Jeff catches him. “Mike.” 

Mike’s swing is a little wild, but it catches Jeff in the jaw anyway, a bright, sharp bloom of pain. He stares at Jeff, chest heaving, eyes wide. And then he turns, heading down the hallway, leaving Jeff standing in front of an empty hotel room. 

Alone. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Red & Black is filled with the rumble of trains, people walking and talking just a little bit faster, pressing in closer on each other. Even if he can’t call it what it is, John still recognizes that Jersey accent, the smirk, the quickness in the step that says East Coast. That says _home_. 

He runs his fingers over the folded slip of paper in his pocket, and somewhere his family is heartbreakingly nearby and just out of reach. _Anna, please, I miss you. Find some way to come to these games. Please._ Those thoughts follow him all day, through their morning skate, and through the afternoon meetings. John rubs his temples, tries to concentrate on what Ranford is saying about the ice. 

The conference room has a window that looks out onto the hallway. At the end of it, he can see Lombardi, he’s speaking with someone slight and short, and when she turns toward the conference room, John’s longing is so strong he can almost give her Maggie’s face. Can almost see his daughter in her. 

John blinks, and when he looks back, Lombardi is alone. 

 

 

 

 

That night, John makes his curfew rounds, knocking on doors and counting heads. He rounds the corner, and Carter is sitting in the hallway, back to the wall, facing Richards and Lewis’ door. This doesn’t bode well. 

He looks up as John approaches, arms braced loosely across his knees. “Carter?” 

Carter looks up at him silently, shirtsleeves pushed up, tie hanging loose around his neck. He eyes John warily. 

John lifts an eyebrow. “What are you doing out here?” 

“Waiting,” Carter says curtly. 

With nothing else forthcoming, John turns his back to Carter and knocks. Lewis answers the door and lets John in. But Richie is missing. “He was here, and then I left.” Lewis informs him, looking uncomfortable. “And then I came back, and he wasn’t here, but – ” his eyes dart towards the hallway, “ – _he_ was.” 

John drags a hand across his face. “All right. Well, get some rest, okay?” 

“Yeah, Coach.” Lewis rubs an awkward hand across his neck. “Is, um, is Carter just going to stay out there? Because – ” 

“Don’t worry about it,” John says. “Rest.” 

Back in the hallway, he looks at Carter. Tips his head. “You want to wait, go wait in your room.” 

Carter hesitates, mouth twisting. 

_“Go.”_

Carter throws one, last furious look at him, but he goes. 

 

 

 

 

Richie is not in anyone else’s room. Richie is not in the lobby downstairs. Nor is he hidden away in any of the conference rooms that the Black have commandeered. Or the weight room. 

He is, however, in the lap pool down in the basement. 

He’s stripped down to his shorts, floating on his back, and John has a momentary flash of panic before Richie cranes his head up to see who’s just come in. Then he paddles to the edge of the pool and makes a grab for a bottle that John swipes just before he can reach it. It is, John notes with some irritation, nearly empty. 

Richie glares up at him from the water. “Hey!” 

John sets it to the side, and regards him for a long moment. For all his many flaws, Mike Richards does not usually get _wasted_ before important games. John tries to make his face look as stern as possible. He holds a towel out to Richie. “Time to get out.” 

Richie pushes off the wall and treads water for a second, regarding him darkly from the center of the pool. 

_Dear Anna, I take back every shitty thing I ever said about my coaches. All of them. Even that asshole, Theriault._

John drops the towel near the edge of the pool and purposely turns his back on him, walking over to the bench and sitting down. He uncaps the bottle and takes a swig. It is, predictably, awful. He waits. 

It doesn’t take long. Richie, John has learned, is really terrible at solitude. And at being ignored. Richie sits down next to him, still dripping, towel draped around his shoulders. He sighs. There’s alcohol on his breath. His eyes are red, and John can see the long scar that winds down his side, skin still a newly-healing pink. 

“What’s up, Richie?” John asks quietly. 

Richie chokes out a little laugh. “I had a shitty time at Lombardi’s party. I’m pretty drunk, which means my coach is probably going to bag skate me tomorrow, and – and Jeff is in love with this girl that – ” He reels off the first two things quick, and John can tell he’s going for the same, light-hearted, mocking tone with the third, but he stumbles, breaking off. Richie looks away. 

“Richie, this – ” One of the hotel staff enters, giving John and Richie a suspicious look. “Come on,” John says quietly, planting a hand on Richie’s back. “Let’s get you upstairs.” 

John leaves his hand on Richie to guide him out of the room and to the elevators. When the elevator arrives at John’s floor, the doors open to reveal Dustin Brown. 

Brown blinks, clearly just as surprised to see them as John is him. Technically, Brown should be in his room, too. 

Which he knows. Brown colors under John’s glare. “I, um – Carts told me Ricky was missing.” 

Richie looks up sharply. 

“Well, I’ve got him.” _Obviously._ John pushes Richie forward, still glaring at Brown. “So get back to your room before someone sees you.” 

Brown looks at him curiously before shrugging and disappearing around the corner. 

Richie lists precariously next to him. John does _not_ roll his eyes. 

John does take him back to his hotel room. The second bed is covered with notebooks and tablets, but he pushes Richie towards a clear corner of it, throws another towel after him. 

Richie drags it across his head and then stops and looks around blinking. “Oh. We’re in your room. You have a room, too.” 

John pauses his efforts to clear debris off the bed. “Yes. I do sleep. Occasionally.” 

“Right.” Richie goes back to blinking. He frowns slightly. “Why?” 

_Why indeed?_ John sits down next to him. “Because your poor roommate has been through enough tonight. And I – ” John is already regretting this “ – thought you might want to talk.” 

Richie lets out such a sad, broken little laugh that John puts an arm around his shoulders, ignores the way the damp is seeping into his shirt. 

“I’m such a fucking idiot. I’m such a fucking idiot, John. I’m so hung up on him.” Richie’s shoulders hunch under John’s arm. “I know I’m not supposed to. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it. And he – he would rather – ” Richie chokes. _“God.”_ He sounds disgusted. 

“Easy, Richie.” 

Richie shakes his head at that. “I don’t know why I can’t – get over it. Sometimes I think he just puts up with me because I want him so badly. That I’m not what he wants at all.” 

He looks so miserable – hands wringing and shoulders tightly drawn up. There’s something familiar in it. John gets a bittersweet wash of recollection, of what it meant to be young, to give your heart away, to have it broken for the first time. There are a lot of years, and lot of miles between John and when that happened for him, but in that moment, the feeling is clear and stinging, salt on a wound. John tightens the arm he has around Richie. “Sometimes being in love sucks.” 

Richie stills next to him. “Do you think it counts?” He asks eventually. “Do you think it counts as love if it’s me and Jeff, if we’re both – ” 

Anna would say yes. Anyone looking at Richie would say yes. “Sure,” John says mildly, and in his head it settles as true. “Sure I think it counts.” 

Richie is quiet next to him for a long moment. “I don’t know if Jeff – ” He stops. 

There is something about youth that makes one particularly short-sighted. John remembers that. “How long?” 

Richie pulls away far enough to squint at him in confusion. “How long what?” 

“How long have you been together?” 

His gaze goes unfocused. “Rookie year, I guess.” He darts an uncertain glance at John’s face. 

John wonders if he’s worried about getting retroactively in trouble for doing that under John’s watch. The thought makes him grin. “I don’t think Jeff stuck with you for four years because it was _convenient_ , if that’s what you’re worried about.” Also, John can still remember Carter’s face after the game in Phoenix, how lost he’d looked when Richie was carried off the ice. The lengths he’d gone to protect him. The almost frightening lack of remorse when John had told him of Campbell’s death – like Carter would have done it a hundred times over if it meant keeping Richie safe. “I believe he cares about you.” 

Richie’s hands twist in his lap. “But this girl. He said he loved her.” 

“I don’t know Mike. I can’t tell you what he’s thinking. These sorts of things – it’s not always cut and dry. But I do know that you’re a good kid. You’re going to be okay. With or without Jeff Carter.” 

Richie shrugs. 

John gives his neck a light shake. “I mean it. You do a lot for this team. You’re going to be okay.” 

Richie’s shoulders hitch, and John pulls him back against his side. Lets him shake until he’s exhausted himself, then pushes him back towards the pillows. “It’s late. You need to sleep.” 

Richie’s eyes are red and swollen, looking up at John. He curls his fingers in John’s shirt, tugging him down too, so John is stretched out next to him. 

It’s an odd moment, a strange intimacy, Richie’s face so close John can feel his breath. He loosens Richie’s grip. Pushes Richie’s hair away from his temple. Richie closes his eyes. 

John waits until Richie’s breathing falls into a deep, even rhythm before leaving for his own bed to sleep. 

 

 

 

 

In the morning, John makes it no farther than the doorway and all but trips over Jeff Carter, who is now parked outside _John’s_ door. He has dark circles under his eyes, and John has just a split second to wonder if he’s been there _all night_ before Richie is walking out behind him, tugging at the T-shirt John loaned him. “Thanks for letting me borrow – ” He glances up and stops short. 

Carter glances from Richie back to John, and the look Carter gives John is one of vicious, undisguised hatred. 

Richie spins on his heel and without a word, walks back into the room. Before John can say anything, Carter shoulders past him, following Richie. John looks swiftly between the hallway and the interior, and it is way too fucking early for his head to hurt this much. 

There’s a loud thump and rattle from inside and John jumps, ducking back into the room and letting the door fall shut. 

Richie’s back is to the wall, Carter’s hands fisted in his shirt. “Mike.” Low. Angry. 

John should maybe – 

Richie spins away from his grasp. “What do you care?” Richie spits back at Carter. “Why would you fucking care?” Carter grabs for him again, and they go scuffling across the room, John stepping neatly out of the way. Carter catches him in the narrow space in front of the door, slams Richie back up against the wall, hard. Which, John has seen Richie take on guys that vastly outweigh him, that tower over him, but here he doesn’t struggle at all. Doesn’t raise a hand to fight back. 

There are no punches being thrown. John should definitely stay out of it. 

“Listen to me,” Carter says. _“Listen to me.”_

Richie glares hard back at Carter, jaw clenched shut. And it’s suddenly so quiet that John can hear the sound of the traffic outside, the sound of Richie’s swallowing. 

“I loved you,” Carter says, and Richie tries to twist away again. “No – listen, the best person I have even been was the person who loved you. And they took that.” Carter’s loosens his grip on Richie’s shirt. He steps back, but his hands are still resting on Richie’s shoulders. “They took all that away from me.” 

Richie’s eyes blaze. “Fucking _Julia – ”_

__

“Julia is not the problem!” Carter brings a hand up to rub his forehead and continues, quieter, “I can’t look at you without seeing hockey, and I’m _done_ with hockey. I can’t look at you without thinking about where I am, and I _don’t want_ to be here.” 

John is all for giving them somewhere to yell it out; he would just prefer not to be here for it. Except that Richie and Carter are now between John and the door, oblivious to his presence. And John is across the room, but he’s close enough to see the way Richie closes his eyes, turns his face away. 

“But, please Mike, I’m trying so hard to make it work.” Carter ducks his head. “I need you.” 

From across the room, John can see a thousand things fly across Richie’s face. “None of that changes that you’re in love with her. You wish you could be with her,” Richie says, some of the hurt from last night clear in his voice. “And I’m – I don’t even know what I am to you.” 

“You’re not listening – she’s not _real,_ she’s – ” 

“I am fucking listening! You’re not listening to yourself!” Richie looks up at the ceiling, searching for words. “If I could pick anybody, in the whole world, I’d want to be with you. If I could be anywhere, I’d be with you.” He looks at Carter again. “And that’s not what you want. How am I supposed to feel about that? And every time she shows up you’re going to pick her – how am I supposed to feel about _that_?” 

Carter’s quiet. Richie’s breathing has gone rough and unsteady, he looks away. 

Carter touches his face, gently, carefully. “I loved her.” Richie shoves at him, but Carter holds fast. “I loved her, but I picked you a long time ago, Mike.” 

Richie stills. 

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever found in this whole fucked-up place. I picked you. I will always pick you. I got into this with you. I want to come out of this with you. I’m trying. Please.” 

And there they are, leaning on each other, tangled, and looking none too steady but upright. John thinks about his wife, and what the weight of her felt like in his arms. Richie’s worrying at the fabric of Jeff’s shirt, twisting it in his fingers like he’s unsure whether to pull him closer. But he’s nodding, just the tiniest bit. 

When Carter pulls him in, Richie goes. 

John clears his throat pointedly. 

Richie jumps a little. “Oh, _Jesus_ ,” he says glancing at John, a flush high in his cheeks. 

Carter’s fingers tighten on Richie’s arm as John just edges past them. They look so young, and John’s unsure what he wants to say – _good luck_ or _be careful_ or _be gentle_ , or how any of it would be received.In the end, he swallows all those back. “Be ready for practice, boys.” 

 

 

 

 

They win both of the first set of games in the Red & Black. They take the first of the home games, too. 

The team is quiet. Steady. Like they’ve moved into some advanced state of hockey symbiosis. John will sometimes pause, and look down the bench, and realize everyone is _breathing_ in sync. They’re playing like nothing can stop them. 

Except, of course, they have to lose. The necessity of it is making the locker room an irritable place. Tempers flare. Quick especially hates it, seeming to view it a violation of the sanctity of his net. 

They lose the second home game. Tonight, back in the Red  & Black, they lose again. The series stands at 3-2. They’re going to have to lose one more. 

Even Sutter is aggrieved by it. “I hate losing.” He sneers at the wall of the visiting team office – just a closet off the locker room, really. “Especially games like this. Games we could have won.” Sutter has larger things on his mind, these days, and tends to approach hockey like it’s the best part of his day. 

John doesn’t envy him. “It’s got to go seven games,” he says. Just two hockey games left. The number hangs like a cloud, or fog hiding an unknown horizon. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Seven games.” Sutter rolls his eyes. “How are the boys?” 

“Good,” John says. “Healthy.” 

They’re interrupted by a knock at the door. John gets up to get it, and there’s a Morality Officer standing there. “Good evening, gentlemen.” 

Sutter nods. 

“I’m here to inspect some of your imports.” He’s wearing his robes – and John’s always thought they looked ridiculous, drifting around the building like angry, over-sized crows. 

“You want the papers or the players, too?” Sutter asks. 

“Both.” He hands Sutter a list. 

Sutter’s mouth twists, and he passes it on to John. “Coach Stevens?” 

“They’ll be eating,” John says. “I’ll get them.” 

_Kopitar, Voynov, and Carter._ Not just any imports. Their _best_ imports. “You need to come with me,” John says quietly. They do, without hesitation. They trust him. Richie meets his eyes for a long minute. 

John pauses in the hallway outside the locker room. “Look,” he warns them. “They’re looking for any excuse to throw you out of the game. He may try to piss you off, provoke you – whatever he wants, just do it. Whatever he asks, just tell him. If that won’t work… lose your English. You understand?” Kopitar nods, expressionless mask already locked in place. Voynov’s shoulders hunch, but he nods as well. 

Carter’s face has gone guarded. John meets each of their eyes; he holds Carter’s gaze the longest. And then he takes them in. 

The Morality Officer has them strip their shirts off. He holds a card reader over Carter’s wrist. “You two don’t have iPerTs?” he asks Kopitar and Voynov. 

They shake their heads. 

“Ah.” He looks over his shoulder at John. “Old school, are we?” 

John shrugs. His heart is thudding away. The M.O. _should_ have everything he needs, but if he’s looking for an excuse to cause trouble, he’ll find it. 

Then, because he’s being a dick, the M.O. has them lose their pants too. The room is cold. John can see them shivering, can see the goose bumps arising on Voynov’s skin. It’s a strange sight – all three of them tower over the M.O., and yet all three of them tense under his gaze, keep their eyes firmly fixed on the floor in front of them. The M.O. asks Kopitar about the scar on his calf, Carter about his foot. Asks about their rehab, as if he _cares_. An inspector looking over livestock, checking on their wellbeing. “And you?” He asks Voynov. “Do you like the Black? Are you treated well?” 

That question is a can of worms John does not want to open. There are a hundred little ways the Black deviates from how imports are supposed to be treated. Letting them room with Union players. Feeding everyone together. Unmonitored trips out of the ice center. Just letting one of these liberties slip would be an excuse for the M.O. to look even _closer._

__

Which is exactly what they don’t need. 

Voynov shrugs and shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says. “English not so good.” 

The M.O.’s mouth twists in an odd, cynical smile. “You can go.” He nods at Kopitar as well. “You too.” Then he turns to Carter. “Not you.” 

Both Kopitar and Voynov glance at John on their way out, a note of concern in Kopitar’s gaze as his eyes flick to Carter. John tries his best to look calm. Reassuring. 

“I don’t have to worry about you not understanding English, do I? And you with such an _interesting_ history.” The M.O. skirts around Carter, lays one hand on the bare skin at Carter’s waist. John’s stomach turns, and he can see the way Carter starts to pull away, and the split-second delay before he catches himself, holds himself tightly still. Carter’s eyes flick up to John’s, wide and a little wild. The M.O. leans closer. “Child of traitors _and_ a sodomite. That’s quite the combination.” He grins, a predatory little curve of his mouth, and starts whispering into Carter’s ear, too low for John to hear. 

Carter winces, the line of his shoulders going tight. He’s edging further from the M.O., as far as he can get away with. John can see the way the M.O. smiles, fat tongue darting across his lip, and his thumb still stroking over Carter’s skin in quick repetitive little circles. The M.O. turns to John, wearing a slippery grin, a cat with his songbird firmly pinned down. “You can leave us.” 

Carter swallows, and he’s looking right at John. Staring right at John, and there’s something horrible, something helpless and pleading in his eyes. 

John thinks about Lombardi’s plans, and Lombardi’s voice. _Whatever they want, John. Give it to them_. He thinks about Anna and Maggie and his boys, who are maybe not so far away. Who could be so, so close. 

When he had been moved from coaching the Phantoms up to coach the Orange in Philadelphia, and Anna had been just on the outskirts of the city, he hadn’t gotten to see her often, but he did still get to see her sometimes. 

He had been busy coaching, but more than that, leading a near-constant parade of refugees out of the Orange. And there had been a moment when he’d _known_ – too many of his contacts had disappeared. Too many of their safe houses had been busted, and he was _sure_ he was on the edge of being discovered, on the edge of being fired and sent god-knows-where. And he had told her, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t put you first.” 

She had wrapped her arms around him, held onto him with a fierce strength, and said, “I would never ask you to be any less.” 

But maybe it was the wrong choice, giving her up. When the cause is this big, where’s the line? Carter looks desperate – like he has nothing left to give up, and suddenly John can only see the kid he was at seventeen, awkward and shy, and so, so afraid. The kid who had been sick at the idea of one of his teammates being hurt. The kid who had looked to _John_ , his eyes wide and trusting, before signing his first contract. 

Maybe he did the wrong thing. Maybe he’ll never know. But what John does know, is that if it was his child the M.O. was putting his hands on, his child standing in a cold room, undressed and defenseless, that he would never forgive the man who didn’t raise his hand to help. 

They’re deep inside the ice center. It’s impossible for there to be any breeze, but John could swear he feels it on his skin. Cool and fresh. Two games. Two games is all they have left, and this can be done. John is suddenly utterly calm, and absolutely certain that Lombardi and Brown, Richie and Carter, _all_ of his team – that they’re going to finish this. They’re going to burn all this down and start over anew. And maybe one day, they won’t all have to be so afraid. 

John thinks, _Dear Anna – I hope when this is all over, when this is through, it’s not just written down as being about fighting and hatred. I hope people remember it was a love story, too._

Out loud, John says, “No.” 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

GAME 6, The Red & Black. 

Just moments to game time, Sutter and Lombardi go sweeping out of the room. Brown clears his throat. “Focus, guys. We have a game. You know what we need to do.” 

_Lose_ , Jeff thinks. _What he means is, we have to lose._

“Has anyone seen Coach Stevens?” Doughty asks. 

Jeff glances around – the guys are shaking their heads. “Not since last night,” Jeff offers. 

Last night there had been two spots of angry color high in the Morality Officer’s cheeks. Stevens had bent down, collected Jeff’s clothes. Handed them over to Jeff with an eerily calm expression on his face. “Go, son,” he said. 

Jeff had glanced over, the M.O. was starting to splutter, red flush spreading across his cheeks. Jeff looked back at Stevens. 

“Go.” 

And Jeff had gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and that was the last thing he saw. 

But there’s no time to worry about it – because it’s time to line up, and then the lights are dimming, and Jeff hits the ice at a run. 

 

 

 

 

Sutter is back before the puck drops, glowering powerfully, but whether his displeasure is over the planned loss or something more, Jeff couldn’t say. 

Stevens never appears. 

They’re all shaken, but it’s Mike whose game is most affected, who keeps glancing over at the bench, looking more and more distraught when Stevens fails to show up. 

In the third, Jeff has to scream, “Heads up, heads up, _heads up!”_ And Mike moves just in time to avoid being plastered into the corner. There’s a whistle, and as they move to the dot, Jeff says, “ _Mike.”_ Fear making his voice sound angry. 

Mikes glances over at him, looking flustered. “I – ” He hesitates. “Take the faceoff.” 

_“_ What?” __

“Just.” Mike skates towards the outer hash marks. “Take the faceoff.” 

Penner’s looking at them both like they’re nuts. 

“He’s fine, okay?” Jeff skates up to the dot. “I’m sure he’s fine.” 

“Hey. Are we going to play hockey, or what?” Henrique chirps. 

Jeff scowls, pushing all thoughts of Stevens, of the night before, of anything but the current moment out his mind. This faceoff, right here, this is Jeff’s job. This is Jeff’s role. He’s going to win it. __

 

 

 

 

Jeff stares up at the ceiling of his Red & Black hotel room. Planned or not, losing still stings. Kopi sits down on the edge of his own bed and buries his hands in his hair, sighing. 

“ _Pizdetz_ ,” Jeff says. 

Kopi looks over at him and grins. “U tebya samuiy khudshiy aktsent. Your accent is _terrible_.” He holds a flask out to Jeff. 

“It’s a made-up language.” Jeff says, reaching out to accept it. 

Kopi tips his head, lip jutting out thoughtful. 

There’s a sharp rap at the door, and Jeff tosses the flask back to Kopi, who stuffs it under his pillow. 

It’s Mike. He looks edgy and unsettled, anxious in a way that makes Jeff chest hurt. Mike paces in the narrow space between the beds. “Nobody’s seen Stevens,” he says finally. He’s agitated, hands twisting restlessly, dropping down into the desk chair before popping right back up again, unable to keep still. 

Kopi looks at Jeff, one eyebrow going up. 

“Maybe Lombardi has him working on something,” Jeff suggests, casting about for something – anything – that will calm him. “Maybe he’s already back in the Black.” He motions for Kopi to pass Mike the flask, but Mike just frowns at it and shakes his head. 

“No. He would have said something if he weren’t going to be here for the game. To Brown at least, and Brownie hasn’t heard anything.” Mike finally settles on the edge of the bed, resting his chin in his hands. He looks at Jeff. “You said you saw him last night? What happened?” 

“Kopi, Voynov, and I got called in to talk to a Morality Officer. Stevens went with us.” Jeff shrugs uncomfortably. 

Mike squints suspiciously. “And then what?” 

Kopi sighs. “The usual bullshit. But Voynov and I got sent out early.” 

Mike shifts his attention back to Jeff, and they’re both looking at him. Jeff squirms, wincing at the memory of the M.O.’s hands moving over his skin. “He asked me a couple more questions and then he told me to leave.” 

“That’s it?” 

Jeff hesitates for a long minute; Mike frowns at him. “Jeff?” 

Jeff does notwant to talk about it. Jeff doesn’t want to think about it. 

Mike lets out a frustrated sigh. “There’s got to be something. Something that would let us know what he was working on. Where he might have gone. If he’s in trouble.” Mike frowns. “Maybe in his office.” 

“Mike, we’re flying out of here in – ” Jeff glances at the clock. “Three hours. He’s probably going to be waiting for us on the plane.” If Jeff concentrates hard enough, he can almost, _almost_ make himself believe that. He just needs to get Mike out of here, just get him on the plane and maybe – 

Jeff’s not sure what then. Just that Mike looking this torn up, this worried is weighing on him. He needs to keep Mike safe. He swallows. “If you start poking around _now_ , and get caught – we have a game we _have_ to win in two days.” 

Across the room, Kopi nods. “He’s right, Ricky. Now is not the time to go looking for trouble.” 

“He’s my _friend.”_ Mike glares at both of them. “He was good to me in Philadelphia; he helped me when I first got to the Black. He helped me find you,” Mike adds, voice going soft at the end. 

 

 

 

 

They’re halfway down to the staff offices when Jeff stops. He can’t – they’re on a fool’s errand, and he knowsit. Mike glances over his shoulder at him, worried. “What is it?” 

“Mike, Stevens – ” Jeff swallows. It takes him a minute to find the words and the whole time, Mike’s frowning at him, face half shadowed in the uncertain light of the stairwell. “The Morality Officer wanted to do something to me. And Stevens said no.” 

Mike’s face is confused for a moment, and then his eyes go dark. 

“I’m worried,” Jeff confesses. “I’m worried – ” 

“Good,” Mike interrupts, tone firm. He wraps a hand around Jeff’s forearm, tugging him forward. “I’m glad he didn’t let them hurt you.” 

The visiting staff offices are dark. Mike flips the lamp on Stevens’ desk on, and Jeff glances around, trying to tell if the light is visible from the hallway. It’s just a temporary office, so there’s not much in the way of personal effects, just a photo of his family half-visible, tucked between two books set on the desk. There are, however, plenty of papers and binders stacked haphazardly. Pages of scrawled and half-illegible notes and diagrams. Plays. Break outs. Line combinations. “What are you even looking for in here?” 

Mike’s unfocused, drifting from the desk to the shelves behind him. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I just hoped he left some sort of message.” 

“He wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave anything incriminating here,” Jeff says, voice low. An anxious awareness of the trouble they could be in prickling over his skin. 

Mike shrugs; he’s thumbing through the binders on the shelf. “Look at this,” he says, voice going a little distant. “He has notes on _all_ the Red  & Black players – even the prospects.” 

Jeff leans over Mike’s shoulder to look. Careful, diligent, concise notes about hockey fill the pages. _Hockey_. In the middle of _all this._ What must that have been like? To spend half your time worrying about hockey, and half your time worrying about the end of the world? The thought makes him laugh a little, actually. “I’m sure he has notes on us, too,” he whispers into Mike’s ear. “I bet yours says, _Mike Richards: gigantic pain in the ass.”_

Mike’s mouth curves. But it fades fast. Jeff rubs the spot between Mike’s shoulder blades, unsure what to say. 

The door creaks. 

And it’s Julia. 

Mike’s expression closes off and he moves in front of Jeff. “What are you doing here?” 

“I could ask you the same thing.” She looks between them. “I’m here to destroy the evidence. If there’s evidence.” There’s nothing teasing in her voice; her face is oddly somber, composed. When Mike doesn’t say anything, she walks around the desk, and slowly and deliberately sits down at it. Slides her hands across the surface, runs her fingers over Stevens’ notes. 

She’s careful with the papers. Gentle. “Julia,” Jeff says. “Do you know where Coach Stevens is?” 

Julia doesn’t look up. “He was arrested,” she says shortly, then clears her throat. “Officially, for failure to cooperate with a Morality Investigation.” She twists in her seat, and she’s looking up at Jeff, dark eyes boring into him. 

Jeff shivers. “Where is he now? We could get him out. We’ve done it before – ” 

Julia shakes her head absently. Her eyes light on the photo, and she tugs it free. “He’s dead.” She runs her fingers over the edges of it, smooths a bent corner. “They would have tortured him,” she says woodenly. “They would have tortured his wife, right in front of him, and he would have told them everything he knew about Lombardi’s plans. And so I brought him a gun. He’s dead.” 

Mike’s gone white beside Jeff. He lunges forward, rips the photo out of her hand. “That’s not true. You’re a liar and _don’t touch his things_ – ” 

She pushes back from the desk, on her feet in an instant. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” She’s tiny, but so fierce, and when she shoves at Mike, he’s forced back a step. “Don’t – ” 

“That’s enough.” 

Jeff looks up to see Dean Lombardi standing in the doorway, looking exhausted and worn. Jacket missing and shirtsleeves pushed up, but a fiery spark of anger in his eyes. “Unless you’d prefer even more company?” He asks mildly. 

Julia takes a step back, steadies herself on the edge of the desk. Mike straightens. Lombardi looks at him, then at Jeff. “Always precisely where you aren’t supposed to be. I could set my watch by you two.” And then he turns his gaze to Julia, face serious and composed. “Hello, Maggie.” 

Mike’s blinking rapidly, mouth working silently. He looks back at Lombardi. “You know her?” 

“Do you have any idea, Mr. Richards, how difficult it is to put together a 23-man roster that can both win a Stanley Cup and overthrow an empire?” One of Lombardi’s eyebrows goes up just the tiniest bit. “It’s been a rather convoluted road.” He gestures at them. “Mike Richards, Maggie Stevens. Miss Stevens, this is Mike Richards and Jeff Carter. Although, I do believe you’ve met?” 

Jeff can hardly breathe, and he searches her face, compares it to his memory of Stevens’, looking for something similar. Sifts through his feeling for her, trying to tell if they’ve changed. Next to him, he can hear Mike’s quiet intake of air and Jeff reaches out a hand to steady him. 

Julia – _Maggie_ – is looking straight back at Lombardi, gaze fixed and unwavering. 

Lombardi clears his throat. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Maggie.” 

“He deserved better,” she says, and something hollow in her voice and broken. “So you better fucking win.” 

 

 

 

 

Mike trembles all the way back to his room, all the way to the plane. And eyes in the walls be damned, Jeff keeps a hand at the small of his back, shepherds him the whole way there. 

By the time they land, Mike has gone perfectly still next to him. “We’re going to win,” he says quietly, sounding as certain he ever has. His eyes flick up to Jeff’s face. “We have to.” 

 

 

 

 

GAME 7, The Black 

They skate out in black. Black uniforms, black banners overhead. Black tape, black sticks. And only the team knows they’re mourning colors. 

Jeff drags oxygen into his lungs. He can hear _everything_ , every drag of a skate across the ice, every scream, every shout, every thud and rattle. A shot ringing off the crossbar is the loudest thing he’s ever heard. 

His muscles are past the point of burning. He’s past the point of pain. He is constant motion, a tool, a rifle, a vehicle, a piece. 

They are fucking unstoppable – like the Red & Black is standing still. Jeff can feel everyone on the ice, like they’re connected with thread. Every pass is like it’s being sent through a tunnel. It’s impossible to miss. By the end of the first, they’re up 3-0. 

_This is over,_ Jeff thinks. And then suddenly, it is. 

It’s white-out noise, and Jeff is looking around: at the very last sheet of ice he’ll stand on, the very last crowd. His very last game. His very last team. 

Mike is next to him when they watch the League Commissioner step out onto the ice. He says a few words. Congratulates them. 

And then he’s smiling at Brownie – holding the mic out to him. The adrenaline is like fire in Jeff’s veins. The crowd noise settles, and out of the corner of his eye, Jeff can see guys fanning out, surrounding Brownie like a shield. He can see Mike, next to him, face so serious and still. And Jeff has a moment of absolute terror, because this will only work – can only work – if the people listen. If they’re willing to stand up, all at once, in protest. And there’s no way of knowing what’s going to happen until they leap. 

Dustin Brown raises the microphone to his lips. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

EPILOGUE 

The trees are like nothing Jeff has even seen – enormous, so big two people couldn’t wrap their arms around them. He stops to look up at the branches, way, way up above. The leaves of the smaller trees are just starting to go yellow, and red, and a fiery orange. Ahead of him, Mike clears his throat pointedly. Jeff hitches his pack up higher on his shoulders and keeps walking. 

Mike has a point. It’s a long fucking walk back to Ontario. 

On good days, when Jeff’s foot isn’t acting up, they can make upwards of fifteen miles. 

At night, Mike sets up camp while Jeff builds the fire. It’s not quite routine yet, but it’s getting there. They sit close together, near the fire, Mike’s shoulder bumping into his; the nights are cool, even though it was warmer this summer than it has been for years. And Mike’s sly about it, but Jeff catches him pitching a piece of his dinner back toward the shadows at the edge of their camp. 

There’s a black dog that’s been following them, not more than half grown. He won’t come close enough for Mike to touch him yet, but Jeff can tell it’s just a matter of time. “I saw that,” Jeff tells him. 

Mike blushes. “He followed us all the way from Red Bluff. I had to give him something.” 

“He wouldn’t follow us at all if you didn’t feed him.” But Jeff can’t really be mad, not with how pleased Mike looks when the dog inches its way out of the shadows and snaps up the scraps. “I bet you’ve already named him, haven’t you?” 

Mike hides a smile. “Maybe.” 

The next day they hit a stretch of road where the shoulder has been turned into a long, terraced garden. It stretches out almost a quarter mile. There are two figures up ahead, bent and working the soil. When they get close, one of them straightens. She puts a hand on the shotgun at her side. Which is fair – Mike has a rifle strapped to his pack, too, after all. 

“What’s your business?” she calls. 

Moving slow, Mike pulls his tags and his ring out of his pocket – he’s got them on an old skate lace. He holds them up for her to see. “We’re hockey players. Just passing through. We’re headed north.” 

“Home,” Jeff says. “We’re headed home.” 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Words written, but cut from this story: 15,699  
> Words written on other projects when I should have been working on this story: 40,619
> 
> Oops. 
> 
> So, I suppose it’s pretty apparent by now that what this whole thing really was, was a love letter to the Los Angeles Kings. But, this part, even more so than the previous two goes AU – oh, right around the time Jeff kills a guy. Maybe one day, if there’s any interest I’ll do a “hockey notes commentary” similar to the one I did for the last part, but other than that, I’m pretty much done in this universe. Anyone else of course, is welcome to have a go at it. 
> 
> Jeff's mumbling literary reference is to _Watership Down_ by Richard Adams.
> 
> This series took what felt like forever to write, and I am so grateful to the many, many people who read, edited, cheered, inquired after, and helped me with it. Along the way, I owe thanks to: puckling, staraflur, Roga, schneefink, Osaraba, rsadelle, lake, sharksdontsleep, Beddee & Saucer, one_day_sooner , monopoly, opusculasedfera… and a host of others on Dreamwidth. 
> 
> Thank you _all_ for reading, your comments and encouragement were more motivation than you’ll ever know.


End file.
